


Winged Horse

by VeryBadMau



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Mild Sexual Tension, Tobacco use, alcohol use, cultural controversy, ethnic controversy, hashish use, mild swearing, pagan discrimination, pantheistic imagery, pre-Season One
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-13 01:11:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14739269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeryBadMau/pseuds/VeryBadMau
Summary: Knowledge, glory, and inspiration: the promised gifts of the legendary Pegasus. What Isis Ishtar received from her dealings was a headache. For even with foresight and Shadi’s sporadic (and often unhelpful) guidance, hiding the Gods was a very painful undertaking. Multi-chapter. Takes place prior to Season One.





	1. OSIRIS

**Author's Note:**

> This is my "Pegasus and Isis hide the God Cards" story. There are many like it in the YGO archive, but this one is mine.
> 
> Actually, ever since I began reading and writing fanfiction back in 2003 (crap, sheer crap, I wrote so much of it (and perhaps I still do write crap, but it's now it's articulate crap)), I've been wanting to write their adventure together, but never really got the juice to do it until now.
> 
> I am surprised at how much I really enjoyed having these two interacting with each other. I honestly didn't even know I was a Sightshipper until I got a third into writing this story. Of course, if you're not into the pairing, it can easily be viewed as the Magic Millennium Friends Road Trip, as I truly intended it to be so.
> 
> I will be using names and titles from the Japanese translation (Isis, Pegasus J. Crawford, Sky Dragon of Osiris, etc.) since it will tie in a little better with the mythological theme. But when Pegasus speaks throughout the story, I just cannot help but imagine Darren Dunstan's voice. You can imagine what you want, though. We all know Pegasus is Pegasus no matter what.
> 
> Any other notes for now? Well, I can say with certainty that I put far, far too much thought into incorporating realism and historical references into a series focused around a children's card game. Such is life and I apologize for nothing.
> 
> Yu-gi-oh! and its characters are copy-written to Kazuki Takahashi and Konami. I own nothing except the power of my own imagination, which really isn't worth that much to begin with anyway.

**OSIRIS**

_I am a heavenborn, I am in the presence of the Great Gods._

50, Chapter for not entering into the slaughterhouse of the god, The Papyrus of Ani,  _The Book of Going Forth By Day_

* * *

 

Isis Ishtar had foreseen meeting Pegasus in only two accounts.

Her first, and brief, encounter was when she was sixteen and worked as an intern for an excavation company under the Council of Antiquities. It was all foreseen, her education proven with rigorous tests and certificates in short time. Most of the knowledge came from her studies in the tombs, everything from the well established dynasties covered in expensive text books to minor cults referenced in no more than a passage from a military conquest record. Yet the small bits that really mattered to the Egyptian government, all the red tape and ink on paper, came from what guidance the Torque offered in its sporadic visions. Whatever driving force was present in the cursed gold on her neck made sure she formed the necessary connections with the right people at the right time.  _Nothing_  was by chance.

She had been set upon a disastrous path, doomed to a struggle with her brother that would make most siblings rethink their own dysfunctional relations. Yet there was no time for remorse –no more than she had spent leading her brothers astray with her foolish mistake. There was a bigger scheme at hand, the End Game. She wasn't there to play.

She was wasting her time, though. The Torque guided her there, miles away from the Valley of the Kings, among rows of tents and scaffolds that led to nowhere. She knew the exact whereabouts of the Gods which Pegasus sought, (she had passed by them almost every other day before the death of her father) but as she was an intern, she had no authority to be giving orders. She sighed to herself as she measured the dimensions of what she knew would be another dead end on the map and readjusted the shemagh she wore on her head to keep the sand out of her eyes. She was nondescript among her coworkers, all in beige robes and chattering amongst one another in Arabic. What was for lunch?

"Rrrr!" She heard a growl from afar, then loud thud atop a table. She looked over her shoulder and beheld the sight of Pegasus hovering over a map, sweat dripping from his brow and his singular, biological eye frantic. She did not envy the cowering archaeologists aside him, but the scene was now familiar to her. She was counting down the seconds in her head. Where was  _he_?

"They must be here  _somewhere_ , and I won't  _rest_  until I find them! These three monsters are an essential part of my game!"

Isis' eyes had narrowed at a sudden intruder in the open tent across from where she stood. There  _he_  was.

Shadi, in his vexing glory, appeared out of nowhere, as he always did. The man never drew attention from the surrounding peoples aside from whom he addressed, and wondered if the Key dangling from his neck was the culprit behind this power, or if the sheer ubiquity of his sand-colored turban and  _thawb_  made him appear unremarkable for others' recognition.

The two exchanged a conversation, one she knew all too well, about leading the desperate CEO to the tombs she once called home. Pegasus seemed grateful for the assistance, nearly falling over a loaded box in excitement at Shadi's announcement of taking him to the Gods' resting place. Isis remained a distant skeptic of the entire situation.

Years ago, Shadi had pinned Pegasus as a player in the great End Game, much like how he had done so to herself and her brother, Malik. Did Shadi also possess some clairvoyant talent? Did the Key speak to him, as the Torque did to her, influencing the unfolding events? Or was Shadi the center of all this chaos, pushing everyone toward the edge for his own agenda?

"It is unlike you to think of conspiracies," Shadi said, standing uncomfortably close to her side. She didn't jump, and her eyes narrowed further. Her Torque did not reveal this conversation. Of  _course,_ even with the shemagh _,_ he had recognized her among the multitude of staff. Did he read minds as the Eye would allow?

"I do not see as you do, Isis Ishtar, nor do I abuse the assets of one's mind. I am a seer of souls, and yours is troubled." His tone was not one of concern. He only made an observation.

"As all of ours are," Isis retorted. "There is nothing but agony in that tomb."

"The suffering is necessary," was all Shadi said, before he turned away. She watched him walk back over to Pegusus and spoke again. The silver-haired man consumed every word without question. Her shoulders dropped a few centimeters in sympathy.

Yes, it was necessary, but the acceptance did not make the reality any more pleasant.

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

Their second encounter occurred some years later.

She had found Pegasus, or rather, had been guided to him, catching him staring through the shades of a window before he turned to see her. He had paid for the presidential suite on the top floor, giving him a romantic view of the pyramids of Giza, the sky aglow with orange and pink, midnight blue growing along the edges. It was the ideal setting for a brochure.

The hotel concierge had given her a wry look before she presented her identification and prattled about their most recent health inspection (she knew about the fleas). She was no longer an intern, but the next in line for the position of Secretary General of the Antiquities branch. Flattery got her nowhere, but she learned early that exaction of regulation worked wonders with the flash of a government ID. The Torque always held a penchant to reveal the dark side of matters, whether she asked it to or not.

The concierge paid attention to the symbol on her badge and completely ignored the "Antiquities" specification in small print. He was so kind to provide her a key to the room, as well. An eyebrow had raised in mild disdain for such blind trust, then she chastised herself. She had just used her position for personal gain; she was in no place to judge anyone at that moment.

The silver-haired man gasped when the door opened with an audible click.

"I've been awaiting your return to the Land of the Pharaohs. I am Isis Ishtar," she greeted dryly. She noted the metal suit case on the bed, three cards of the deities she knew too well on display. Had Pegasus been admiring his unsanctified work before she came? The thought had left her head as soon as it had come. There was little time to waste. If she knew their whereabouts, then Malik wasn't far behind.

"Now come with me."

Pegasus stared at her in bewilderment, before his face contorted in a manner as though he had sipped a glass of bad wine.

"I didn't request any entertainment for the night. Where is my guide?"

She had seen this far into the vision, so her neutral expression remained intact. Underneath, her chest burned and she exhaled, slowly. She had to be in control, because she knew, at that moment, she was the only mature adult in the room.

"I am not an 'entertainer', Mr. Crawford. I am the Assistant Secretary General of the Council of Antiquities, and I have received your eager request to hide your work throughout the country. Now, please, come with me. We haven't any time left!"

He looked at her, holding his chin in his hand, staring far too intensely for her liking. The golden Eye in his head gleamed.

" _Cease with your stubbornness! Come with me, right now, or we shall perish!"_  Isis thought.

Pegasus lifted his eyebrows in amusement.

"So you know my Eye's gift? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised with what you have around your neck. So, what does  _your_  little trinket do?" he asked with a dramatic flourish of his hand. If Isis did not know what was about the happen, the next moment would have been met with a shot of adrenaline through her system, panic set on every nerve, but she knew too well what was coming, and unfortunately, up to that moment was all the Torque had wanted to show her.

"GET DOWN!" Isis shouted, leaping across the bed and grabbing the suit case. The momentum of her body slammed into Pegasus and sent him into the wall. Amidst his protests, she took hold of his head and held it to the ground where she joined him.

The window Pegasus had been standing in front of seconds ago shattered as an RPG sailed through. It met the wall on the other side of the room with an enormous blast and a burst of flame. The mattress may have been full of fleas, but whatever consisted of the bed frame was literally bomb proof. Not a scratch remained on either of the Item bearers. Ringing flooded both of their ears as Isis grabbed Pegasus by his scarlet red ascot and dragged him out of the burning hole into the hall toward the fire exit.

The building shook as more rounds were fired into the side of the hotel. People began to run into the hall, panicked, confused. Isis felt like weeping. Was Malik truly this far gone? Did he care so little for the rest of the world, all for his vengeance against the very King he was sworn to protect? The Gods could not fall into his hands if it was so.

"So, your own brother is behind this sudden catastrophe?" Pegasus shouted. "And you knew, without a doubt, that he was going to strike today? Did you even bother alerting the proper authorities? That's aiding and abetting a terrorist, you know! Do I need to report the both of you to Interpol?"

"I would appreciate it if you stopped reading my mind, thank you," Isis said, throwing the door to the fire exit open and charging down the stairs with Pegasus in toe. "If my Torque shows what is destined, then the path cannot be altered, for the path is  _set._  The hand of fate lays still upon our world."

"So you just  _accepted_  what that piece of jewelry told you, knowing masses of people would be killed today? You're immoral! I think I'll take my chances and hide these on my own!" Pegasus reached for his suit case and attempted to wrestle it away from Isis' grasp. The two began to struggle on the steps of the fire escape, throngs of people pushing them aside.

"This 'piece of jewelry' is the reason you still draw breath!" Isis defended as more and more people violently pushed past her and Pegasus. "It is the same cut as the Eye in your head! When magic—Uff! When magic brands you as its own, you cannot—Ugh! Denial of one's fate is an exercise in futil—Ah!"

"I take it back. Ow!" Pegasus shouted, sweat dripping from his face from the rising heat and the continuing struggle for the God Cards. Isis had a monstrously strong grip for a woman so delicate in appearance. "You're not  _immoral_ , you're—Agh! You're  _crazy_! Let go! I'll make my own destiny!"

"You tried to 'make your own destiny,' Pegasus Crawford, and look where it has led you."

They noticed the flow of people suddenly stopped.

The voice had come from neither of them. It was distorted, dull, void of humanity. Isis' heart sank as she beheld three ominous figures in purple robes climbing slowly up to their place on the stairs. They turned to run back up, but were met with three more men in the same garb. The Egyptian woman took note of the glowing Eye of Wjdat on their foreheads.

"You know this cult, I take it?" Pegasus quipped. Isis had never felt a stronger urge in her life to throw a man down the steps of a fire escape.

"Oh, so  _you're_  violent as well? It must be genetic."

"Please be quiet, and  _stop using your Eye_ ," Isis requested. She stared, pleadingly, at the men climbing up the steps.

"Malik, I know you can hear me," she said. "Please, my brother, stop this madness. It hurts me, endlessly, but I can  _take the pain_. The fault lies with me, I  _know_  this, but please, I beg you, stop harming the innocent."

"You have no fault, sister, with the exception of defending those who need to be punished," the men in purple robes spoke in unison. " _The Pharaoh must pay_. We have given too much of our lives to the dead, and if walking in the light means I must burn a thousand to attain my goal, then so be it."

A tear made its way down Isis' face, her lips tight, eyes determined.

"You will  _not_  possess the Gods, Malik. I shall not allow it."

"Then you will burn."

"No, we won't!" Pegasus interjected, shaking his index finger as though lecturing a child. He pulled several blank cards out of the back pocket of his khaki trousers. Isis' eyes widened.

"Pegasus, no!"

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"What a disaster..." Isis sighed.

Sirens blared in the background as multicolored lights bounced off the surrounding buildings and worried faces. Her back sank against a large concrete barrier until her bottom touched the ground, the suitcase close at her side. She removed the jade orb from her forehead along with the gold headband. She rubbed her temples with a grimace while she held her jewelry in the other hand. She could forgive Malik for misdeeds against herself, but how could she find it in herself to forgive him for all  _this_?

"I think we got out of that pretty well, don't you?" Pegasus asked with a smirk. He leaned against the wall and looked down at her crouching form. It took all of Isis' decency not to glare back. She fixed her neutral expression before speaking.

"You challenged my brother to a Shadow Game. We both could have lost our lives."

"We were going to die,  _horribly_ , in a fire. It was our only option."

The silver-haired aristocrat held up six cards, all depicting pictures of the men who had attempted to restrain them.

"Your brother had a tight hold on their souls, but he didn't seem very  _experienced_  with his item. He held his own quite well against me, but he lacked some finesse during our little mind game.  _I_  didn't mind the challenge, but—"

"We must continue with our agenda," Isis interrupted.

"No question, at all, about their fates?" Pegasus inquired, fanning out the cards, waving them back and forth like a fan.

"Perhaps you  _are_  as violent as your brother," he teased. She didn't appreciate the attempt at humor.

"Their souls were lost long ago," Isis began, adjusting her jewelry back to their proper positions on her head. She lifted herself from the ground along with the suitcase. She gripped it tightly in her right hand.

"My brother, as you assessed, is still somewhat... inexperienced. Those he controls are predisposed to a weak constitution, broken long ago."

" _But he grows stronger with each encounter..."_  was her thought.

"Now, for the last time, please come with me."

"Is it  _truly_  the last time?" Pegasus asked with guile. "Have you foreseen it, or are you hopeful I won't challenge  _you_  to a Shadow Game and run away with your Torque  _and_  the Gods when I am done?"

"I am aware you have witnessed the Gods' terrible power," Isis said matter-of-factly. "Executive staff in your research and development divisions mysteriously 'disappeared', and you have had frenzied dreams after long hours of painting divinity on a canvas. My Torque showed me that much, Mr. Crawford. You have done battle with my brother in the darkest realms of the mind. You see the damage he is capable of when he is left to his own devices, and you know full well what will be the destruction of all mankind if the Gods remain as they are, now, in the open. They must be  _hidden_."

Isis began to walk away from the scene of carnage. Pegasus followed with a childish huff, bitter at the reminder of the Gods' wrath in his slumber, and also bitter at being bested by the humorless young woman, for the time being.

"All right, I shall follow you," Pegasus agreed stiffly, the Millennium Eye glowing. "But after this shameful display, I would like to call in my own reinforcements."

"As you wish." She nodded, and they were off.

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"So, you are the Assistant Secretary?" Pegasus prodded. They sat in the back seat of an OD green Lada Niva, ten vehicles of the same make and color traveling with them in a convoy. Six rode in the front of their vehicle, four in the rear. Small clouds of dust trailed behind them as they traveled into an expanse of endless sandstone and sky.

"Yes," Isis said plainly. She no longer wore one of her favored dresses, opting for a khaki blouse and pants of the same color, a pair of ankle-high boots to establish better footing on jagged stone and loose sand. Beside her boots laid a leather satchel with a canteen attached by a carabiner clip. A tan checkered shemagh wrapped around her neck, hiding the Torque from view. It was a uniform that allowed her more flexibility on excavation sites, and held a stronger air of professionalism among the working crews. At her side, she had a dagger sheathed in leather. The double-edged blade was a polished steel, the Eyes of Ra and Horus engraved on the hilt.

Between Isis and Pegasus were the Gods, secure in their custom platinum suitcase.

"You appear quite young to hold such a position. Don't you need a Master's for that sort of job?"

"The Council has been gracious to me," Isis hummed. "I am in the process of obtaining my Master's. For now, a Bachelor's suffices my career with the appropriate experience."

"The sort of experience that comes with dwelling underground in a tomb for fourteen years?"

She shot him nondescript stare. He already looked far deeper into her mind than she would have liked without her permission. She thought to attempt a harsh barrier with her Torque, but decided on another route. The man would keep prying if she placed more defenses, adding more undue stress to the journey and her mind.

" _Very well, I'll show you what drove me to do all of this."_

Pegasus delved deeper into her head with her agitated consent, then recoiled in his seat when she allowed him the worst of it all. Rishid, unconscious, blood seeping from the gashes on his back and forming a pool on the floor. Malik's transformation, unsheathing the knife from the Rod. Her father, wailing like a pig, skinned alive and pinned to the wall of the tomb. Malik draping her father's hide over Rishid's back.

"Oh..." Pegasus grimaced. "I didn't  _need_  to see all of that."

"Oh, but you  _insisted_ ," Isis said, taking her eyes off of the CEO of Industrial Illusions and staring at the back of the driver's head. She would have been content with the silence, but without further want to use his Eye, Pegasus needed to have some levity in the air from what he saw.

"So... after all that... how did you end up here?"

"Why would you ask such a question when, at a whim, you could retrieve it from the recesses of my mind?" The calmness of her voice betrayed her true feelings.

"After what you just showed me, I'd rather hear the details from your lips. I believe you have the eloquence to leave out the gory bits if you so choose," Pegasus said with a hint of irritation. "I was just trying to have a civil conversation."

"By violating my privacy and peering into my head without my permission?"

"You  _willfully_  showed me that last bit, young lady," he said with a finger pointed accusingly in her direction.

"Mr. Crawford, if I may be so forward," Isis asked in a tone that didn't condone the supposed politeness of the request. "While you are some years my senior, I would be most appreciative if you didn't act so patronizing."

"Point taken, Miss Ishtar. I am something of an academic prodigy myself, so I can understand your frustration," Pegasus said with a shrug. "You have yet to answer my question. How is it that you've managed to do so well so quickly?"

"...I do suppose few archaeology majors are so fortunate to make a living from their interests," Isis said after some hesitation. "I confess there was some nepotism involved, along with help from  _this_." She placed her fingers over her neck, gently brushing the cloth of her shemagh.

"You understand, yes?"

"All too well," Pegasus confirmed, moving his hand to gently flip the silver strands that covered his Millennium Eye from view. "What do you mean by 'nepotism'? From what I...  _saw,_  your family was quite restricted."

"You mean, not above ground?" Isis emphasized. "The tribes who survived the invaders of this country still regard those who have sacrificed for a greater cause."

"Invaders? Like..." Pegasus paused, thinking of a logical reference. "Belzoni? Napoleon? The European craze? Mummy parties and tomb robbing?"

There was a laugh, stuck in her throat and bitter to taste.

"This country was ravaged of its history long before the likes of Belzoni and Napoleon arrived, Mr. Crawford. My Torque shows what is to come, and while I've yet to master this skill, the past itself is an open book to me. Believe me when I tell you that I read that book quite often. Do you  _know_  how painful it is for an archaeologist to  _see_  what has been, but have no evidence in the present to prove its occurrence?"

"Uh..." Pegasus inched away from her in his seat. He sensed the beginning of a rant.

"It is a clash of literature and science. History is written by the victors, but when the victors wipe their enemies' civilizations from existence, we in the present only see what has been recorded or what has been  _allowed_  to be left behind. That includes the people, as well. There are not many Egyptians left in Egypt, Mr. Crawford."

"It looked to me like Cairo was doing quite well when I flew in," said Pegasus with a furrowed brow. A sharp sound, almost a hiss, left Isis as her hand rested over her neck.

"Arabs are not Egyptians, Mr. Crawford. They are no more Egyptian than the waves Macedonians or Romans who came before them."

"Is this going to turn into an ethnic rant?" Pegasus interrupted irritably. "Because that would make me  _very_  uncomfortable, Miss Ishtar."

"Having to show you the worst events of my life thus far made me  _very_  uncomfortable, Mr. Crawford. The notion will be returned," Isis said, undeterred. "It is not a matter of race. It is a matter of  _culture_. My Item has allowed me to see cities and events that may as well have never happened. Eras and dynasties have risen and fallen in my eyes, and I have no way to share their occurrence with the world. There is  _nothing_  left of them  _to_  share. As for what  _is_  left..."

She turned over the words in her head, carefully, now gripping at the cloth around her neck and feeling the gold underneath.

"The so-called 'Egyptians' of today do not cherish what is left of Old Egypt, not as I do. The Council of Antiquities has more so become a lateral faction for the tourism board than it is an agent of preserving Egypt's history." 

"...But there are enough 'Old Egyptians' today with your values that you were able to gain an education and employment with the Council. Your family, and families like yours, made it an enterprise to guard ruins and your Millennium Item filled in the rest of the gaps."

Isis raised an eyebrow in suspicion. In response, Pegasus held his hands up in a defensive motion, but his face appeared to be very blasé about the situation.

"Don't jump to conclusions, now. I did not read your mind. I merely used deductive reasoning. It seemed that was where the conversation was going. Also, with a name like 'Ishtar,' antiquities would be a likely specialty."

"You are correct," was all Isis said. The ride continued in silence and the two observed everything in the back of the vehicle except for the person sitting next to them. Pegasus' knee twitched out of habit and Isis stared out the window. She noted the position of the sun and the shape of the clouds above the sand dunes. The scene was familiar to her. For a brief moment, the Torque under her shemagh flashed.

Not good at all. She sighed heavily and held the suitcase containing the God Cards to her chest.

"Mr. Crawford, I advise you tuck your head between your knees."

"Now why would I...?" His flabbergasted expression quickly turned into a glare when he remembered the last time she gave him an order. "Oh, Jesus fu—!"

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"—cking Christ!"

"There is no need for vulgar language, Mr. Crawford."

"There is need for  _many_  things here!" he shrieked. He grabbed fistfuls of his hair and fell to his knees. "Everything is on fire!"

Suited bodies of the security guards Pegasus had contracted littered the ground alongside the burnt and bullet-ridden vehicles. With them were men wearing purple robes bearing the eye of Wjdat, soaking the sand with blood.

All but one of the armored Lada Nivas had been totaled in the chaos. The center Niva that had been transporting Isis and Pegasus retained the least amount of damage, as it was the only vehicle not in flames.

"They almost killed us!" Pegasus gasped. "Those men were highly recommended by my affiliates in the Emirates! They were supposed to be the best security money could buy!"

"Men with able bodies and ill will are capable of great atrocities," Isis intoned. Somberly, she looked at the purple robes of the deceased Ghouls flapping in the wind. She traced her thumb over the handle of the suitcase that had caused the chaos (or rather, the contents within it).

"Well, that's the last time I spend top dollar on Dubai!" Pegasus huffed, running his hands through his hair and shaking his head. "Next time, I'm buying American!"

Isis only stared.

"It's okay for you to laugh. That was meant to be funny," Pegasus said, getting back on his feet and brushing the sand off his trousers.

"You must forgive me. I see no humor in death."

"You could at least crack a smile," said Pegasus. "Out of  _some_  sense of pride. Once our driver was shot, I thought for sure we were goners! How you climbed to the front and took that wheel..."

He shook his head, both in relief and disbelief, attempting to recall the event as adrenaline ebbed out of his system. His hands shook as he gestured to her.

"Amazing! All that re-direction, that swerving, and, what do the kids call it? Drifting? Blinding them with clouds of sand! You were literally doing circles around them! Where did you learn to drive like that?"

"Have you truly spent any time in Cairo?" Isis asked. Her left eyebrow raised for a second before fixing itself back to her neutral expression. "I had a temporary job as a taxi driver before I attended university. Only for a few months..."

Isis repressed a shudder.

"I walk when I can," she confessed.

"Well, if antiquities doesn't work out for you, I will readily give you a position as my personal chauffeur."

"I can say to you with confidence that position will never be fulfilled."

"You don't know how to take a compliment, do you?"

After a moment of silence, they looked away from each other and assessed the surrounding carnage once again.

"So... how are we going to explain this to the authorities?"

"By reporting it for what it is: an organized attack on a government official. The next town is not far from here. We shall find a phone and I shall notify the appropriate channels."

"And where is this town?"

"Not very far. Roughly five kilometers west of our position."

"Five kilometers!" Pegasus whined. "That's five miles!"

"Three miles," Isis corrected him.

"Oh, pish! Why don't we just use the satellite phone that came with my security detail?" asked Pegasus.

As if she was expecting the question, Isis pulled out a phone with a bullet hole in the center.

" _Oh_."

"Yes," Isis said, putting the phone back in her satchel.

"But I  _abhor_  walking!" Pegasus whined, slouching in protest. "And it's  _hot_ , and I  _hate_  exercise! This beauty can't be marred by  _s_ _weat_! You were born in Egypt; you know the ways of the desert. Can't you signal a Roc down to move us?"

Isis' steely expression broke and she looked at the man sideways.

"A... A stone? To move us?" She wondered if the man was beginning to suffer heat exhaustion in the short span they had been out, or if she was missing something in translation.

"No, not a moving stone! That's  _stupid_! I'm talking about a Roc!"

Isis continued to stare at the man like he had grown a second head.

"Ugh! You know, a  _Roc_!" Pegasus began to flap his arms up and down. "Those huge birds that can pick up elephants! Can't you make a bird call to summon them or something so we can ride it to the next town instead?"

The reference finally crossed Isis' mind, but her expression did not change.

"Mr. Crawford... those aren't real."

"What are you talking about? Of course they're real! I read about them in Sinbad!"

"Sinbad wasn't real, either." Well, not the particular Sinbad Pegasus had been thinking about, but Isis wasn't about to spend time recounting the phenomena of historical events that influenced folklore. She didn't even want to correlate how Pegasus could have thought, in  _any_  context, that the tales were true.

"Sinbad the Sailor didn't exist, nor did Scheherazade or any of the events from  _One Thousand and One Nights_. They are merely stories, Mr. Crawford."

The silver haired man had a look as though she had told him a kennel of purebred Tibetan Mastiff puppies had perished in a fire. Isis resisted rolling her eyes, instead settling for turning on her heel to avoid looking at him any further. She began to walk.

"If it is any consolation to you, Mr. Crawford, I have enough food and water to make the trip."

"Isis, wait!" Pegasus reached out to her and rested his hand on her shoulder. She turned to face him.

"I think you are a very strong woman, Miss Ishtar," Pegasus declared. Isis said nothing in return, searching for a deeper meaning beneath the words.

"Do you think you could carry me there?"

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"Why can't we ride a camel?"

"Because we do not have a camel to ride."

"But why don't we  _have_  one?"

"We did not pay for one."

"But we shouldn't  _have_  to pay for one! This is  _Egypt_! They should be everywhere! We should just be able to climb on one and go! Aren't they native to the Middle East?"

"The camels we know today originated from your homeland, in the Americas. They migrated to Eurasia on the land bridge 5 million years ago."

"You just enjoy defecating on my dreams, don't you?"

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"I'm hot."

"You lost your hat in the attack. Take my shemagh and wrap it around your head, like this."

"Won't that make me hotter?"

"It will shield your head and neck from the sun far better than your ascot, and it form a layer that will keep you cool."

"That's just a fancy scarf. Scarves make you warm. You're trying to kill me."

"You say I am 'of the desert', yet you refuse to take advice from someone who has spent their life surviving in this heat?"

"I am simply saying, it's stupid."

"You are acting like a stubborn child."

"I am trying not to die."

"You are taking part in the very mindset that killed many of Napoleon's soldiers when they first came here. They refused to strip down their uniforms and wear the robes of the local populace because they thought they would trip over the garb in combat and it would make them look feminine. Nearly all of them suffered heat stroke as a result."

"..."

"Do you feel better now?"

"... Do you have one of these in red?"

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"Are we there yet?"

"We have only been walking for fifteen minutes."

"So, is that a 'yes' or...?"

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"IT'S CHASING ME!"

"Pegasus..."

"IT'S TRYING TO KILL ME!"

"Pegasus, please stop."

"YOU SAY ROCS AREN'T REAL, BUT THAT THING IS?! MADNESS!"

"Mr. Crawford, slow down..."

"IT'S SCREAMING AT ME!"

"Slow down... and listen to me..."

"I CAN'T RUN MUCH LONGER! OH, GOD, IT'S GOING TO BITE ME!"

"Pegasus, stop running!"

"GOODBYE, CRUEL WORLD! CYNDIA, MY BELOVED, I SHALL SEE YOU SOO— Oh, wow, it stopped."

"Yes, it stopped, and it would have stopped half a mile ago if you had listened to me."

"What is it?"

"It's a camel spider."

"Why did it chase me so far?"

"It was chasing your shadow."

"Why would a spider chase a shadow?"

"Are you hot?"

"...Yes?"

"So is the spider."

"Oh, so it just wanted shade?"

"Yes."

"... Can I keep it as a pet?"

"..."

"Why are you walking away?"

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"Why can't we ride a camel?"

"We've been over this already."

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

"Isis, I don't think I could take another step. The heat, it's too much!"

"Mr. Crawford, please get back on your feet and let go of my ankle."

"How can you be so heartless? I'm suffering her—Aah! The spider is crawling on me! Get if off! GET IT OFF!"

"If you stopped moving..."

"IT'S IN MY HAIR!"

"Mr. Crawford! Come back! You're running the wrong way again!"

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

The camel spider stopped just behind Pegasus' heel to enjoy the cool of the shadow he cast until he had walked just enough to reveal the sun on the arachnid's body, forcing it to scuttle in shorts bursts to avoid the blistering heat. It appeared as though the creature was being tugged by an invisible leash every few feet.

"I'm  _exhausted_ , and my mouth is dry."

"Mr. Crawford—"

"I think I'm dehydrated!"

"I just gave you water a quarter of a mile ago."

"But I don't feel sweat on my brow! Isn't that a sign of heat exhaustion? Oh, no, I'm going to have a stroke, aren't I?"

"You  _are_  still sweating, Mr. Crawford. Observe the stains on your khakis."

Pegasus grimaced at the words "stains" and looked down at his uniform. As she noted, there were very noticeable, wet rings around his collar and under his arms, and he could feel his shirt sticking to his back. He didn't want to think about the condition of his socks and underwear.

"Ugh! Repulsive!"

"It's a sign you are adequately hydrated," Isis stated, not showing any worry for his condition. Pegasus didn't appreciate the lack of dramatics.

"Just how much longer is it going to be?"

It was Isis' turn to be unappreciative of the other person's expression. She tamed her lips from curling into a sneer and kept them even.

"We would have reached our destination ten minutes ago had you not been in hysterics running in the wrong direction."

"Can you blame me?" Pegasus asked. He pointed down at the camel spider in question. "This thing looks downright Lovecraftian."

"I thought you wanted to keep it as a pet."

"I do," Pegasus confirmed. "But that doesn't change the fact it's  _hideous_."

Isis sighed in response.

"I'm afraid we may have to eat it, though, if we don't reach town soon. I'm starving!" Pegasus proclaimed.

"We will not have to resort to consuming your arachnid."

"And why is that? You have more rations in your bag?"

"No," Isis said with a shake of her head. She pointed just beyond the edge of their view. "Do you see?"

Pegasus squinted and rubbed his eye for clarity. He saw color.

"... Green?"

"Yes. Those are trees, Mr. Crawford. We have arrived at the Siwa Oasis."

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

Isis found that Pegasus could run quite well for a man who claimed to be utterly exhausted.

"This is amazing!" Pegasus gasped in awe. The stood now in a marketplace shaded by a verdant grove, the landscape a mix of cob structures and clear springs, donkey carts and rickshaws blending in sparse traffic with small jeeps along the winding roads framed by the spreading leaves of date and olive trees.

"Indeed. I advise trying some of the fruit. Many of the trees you see here have existed long before the Temple of Amoun. You could pluck a date and it would taste just as it did to a Persian soldier 2,700 years ago."

"Oooh, what's going on over there?" Pegasus pointed excitedly to a gathering of people clad in decorative robes in a circle. The beat of drums and chants thrummed throughout the air, a multitude of men swirling together in a massive circle.

"It is Thursday, is it?" Isis murmured to herself.

"Hm?"

"It's a Sufi dhikr circle," Isis clarified. Pegasus blinked and held his chin in his hand, absorbed in the scene of moving bodies. From a distance, they looked like a series of waves, human ripples in the scenery of the desert oasis.

"Sufi? Like the ones who spin?"

"That's what they're known for," Isis said. She began to fall into the role of a tour guide with a captive audience. "Their aim is to purify the consciousness to attain unity and communion with the Divine. They are characterized as the mystics of Islam, but their rituals and practices predate the religion."

"Where did the rituals come from?" Pegasus asked, mouth slightly agape as he found himself drawn to the movement and music. He understood, then, why people fell under the spiral patterns of a hypnotist so easily. He would need to develop some magic cards when he got back to America.

"It's a difficult topic for scholars to agree upon. However..." Isis passed a finger over her Torque, a glow on the dark pupil as she closed her eyes. "To condense it, somewhat: They have roots with the old mystics of Syria and Egypt, and some influence from Zoroastrianism.  _Many_  will argue otherwise, but..."

"You see it?" Pegasus, with some effort, took his attention off the ceremonial circle and looked at Isis curiously. She opened her eyes with a hum, frowning.

"We would have better empirical evidence of their origins if their shrines were left alone."

"What's happening to the shrines?"

"What is expected to be done to all things from  _Jahiliyyah_ ," she said with a sudden sadness in her eyes as she stroked the gold of the Torque. Pegasus didn't appear to understand the cryptic hint and she sighed wearily.

"Such things are not of  _your_  concern," Isis dismissed with a wave of her hand. She had indulged too much with him. "I must make a call to alert my associates of our arrival. In the mean time, you are free to browse the markets. You may buy what you need, but please refrain from exorbitance."

"Do they have any pet stores here?"

Isis inhaled deeply. What did she  _just_  tell him?

"Oh, don't look at me like that! I'm not looking to buy an animal. I want to know if there are any cages for my little friend here." He gestured to the camel spider still standing in his shadow.

An ephemeral glint crossed the Eye of Wjdat on the Torque. Isis opened her mouth to form a response, but the words died in her throat. Pegasus noticed and lifted an eyebrow in inquiry.

"Hm?"

Isis snapped out of the vision with a blink. She attempted to cement herself in her stoicism as she spoke.

"Pegasus, such a frivolous purchase will not be necessary."

"And why is that?"

On cue, a puttering tuk-tuk passed by the duo and crushed the camel spider under its wheels. They both stared at the Solifuge pancake on the ground, edges of the legs twitching for several seconds before settling still. Pegasus pursed his lips together, narrowing his biological eye.

"Because that just happened," Isis said.

She made a motion to turn and find a phone, but stopped when she saw Pegasus' shoulders moving up and down with his breathing.

"You know..." Pegasus began lowly, clenching his fists at his sides. "My hotel room was blown to high heaven; I had to play a Shadow Game to prevent us from dying in a fiery inferno; my expensive security detail was annihilated..."

He lifted his head, but didn't look at Isis, raising his hands and moving them side to side, as though categorizing his thoughts and putting them into separate piles.

"I'm hot; I'm sweaty; camels don't come from Egypt; I'm  _famished_ ; Rocs aren't real; I'm  _still_  hot; the end of the world as we know it could occur if we don't hide the Gods because _your brother_  is a lunatic, and  _NOW MY PET SPIDER IS DEAD!_ " He lifted his hands in the air before bringing them back to chest in an effort to gather the thoughts back into his being.

"Why won't this country let me be happy?"

" _The suffering is necessary..._ " Isis muttered in Arabic, repeating a phrase she had heard not-so-long ago with a bowed head.

"What?" Pegasus asked.

"I am sorry, Mr. Crawford," she apologized, switching back to English. "I really must make my calls if we are to advance further. Shall we reconvene at this point in an hour? I believe it is safe to say we both need time to ourselves if we are to see this journey through intact."

"Am I driving you mad?" Pegasus asked with a small grin. "If you need space, merely say so. I can do quite well on my own, Madame Muad'Dib."

Isis frowned at the man's claim. After spending time with him in the desert and watching his nervous breakdown, she was doubtful of his survival without her there to guide him.

He took her frown as confusion at his newly bestowed nickname upon her.

"You know? 'The spice must flow.' It's from—"

"I have read  _Dune_ ," Isis snapped in a calmness only she could muster. "I need not insight from Melange or the Torque to be doubtful when it comes to leaving you to your own devices."

"Well!" Pegasus said, placing a hand on his chest with a smile. "Truly, Madame Muad'Dib, I will be fine. Don't forget, I bear a blessing as well." He tapped on his Millennium Eye for emphasis.

Isis placed a hand on her Torque, debating whether the word "blessing" was appropriate for either of their situations. Regardless, she nodded in agreement and turned away. The journey needed to continue.

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

The hour apart did very little in alleviating Isis' mind. The calls regarding the bloody incident with the security detail and redirecting the burial crew for the Sky Dragon of Osiris left her more drained than the 5K walk in the desert with Pegasus.

Speaking of whom, where was he?

"Madame Muad'Dib!"

She almost cringed at hearing the nickname, and came very close to letting her annoyance surface when she laid eyes on him.

The creator (or rather, reviver) of Duel Monsters reclined in a chair beneath a large table umbrella, waving excitedly to Isis from a small restaurant in the market square. She almost hadn't recognized him from afar. He had completely done away with his excavation uniform. Around his head, hiding most of his hair from view, he wore a red-and-white  _ghutrah_  held in place by a plain black  _agal_. Where his khaki shirt and blouse had been was now a brilliant scarlet  _bisht_  with gold outlays over a white  _thawb_. He had also purchased a shaded-lensed monocle and wore it over his natural eye.

She slowly walked up to him and observed what looked to be a guidebook to Egypt in his other hand. He stopped waving and instead gestured for her to sit in the chair next to him.

"Mr. Crawford, you've gone native," she said, politely refusing to sit and crossed her hands in front of her waist while holding the suitcase, pulling her shoulders back with impeccable posture. He took the chair he had offered her and used it to prop up his feet.

"Yes, indeed! I thought very hard about what you had said in the desert about Napoleon's soldiers.  _So_..." he said, elongating the word and looking over his monocle. "What do you think?"

"You look like a member of the Saudi royal family." The words weren't intended to be a compliment. Pegasus threw his head back and laughed heartily.

"Wonderful! In that case, you can have this back." He took her tan checkered shemagh out from underneath the red  _bisht_  and threw it at her chest. She resisted scowling as she felt it had been completely soaked through with his sweat and promptly dropped it on top of a passing donkey cart behind her. It wasn't worth saving. Pegasus didn't seem to acknowledge her discontent and continued to grin.

"I feel so much better in this weather! No wonder Lawrence of Arabia dressed this way," Pegasus said, before his smile disappeared and gained a wary look. "Lawrence of Arabia  _was_  real, right?"

"While the validity of some entries from his memoirs are disputed," Isis began, noting the worry on Pegasus' brow, "Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence himself was a real person."

Relief washed over Pegasus' face at the affirmation. Isis gathered the discipline not to roll her eyes.

Being able to see into the past, Isis knew that some of the events T. E. Lawrence recorded during the Arab revolt were fabricated. Yet if Pegasus was going to make the comparison, she wouldn't have doubted that the CEO of Industrial Illusions would have found pleasure in being bound and violated by a horde of Turkish guards.

"Hey, now!" Pegasus interjected, pointing accusingly in her direction. "That's  _quite_  rude, and even  _I_  know he made that part up!"

Her discipline faltered and her eyes widened.

"You read my mind again," she gasped.

"Don't act scandalized!" Pegasus scolded. "You shouldn't be making wayward assumptions of my personal preferences."

Isis didn't have a counter to that. Begrudgingly, he was right.

"Though I do suppose it is rude of me, also, to look into your head without asking," Pegasus said, glancing at the sky in thought.

"Yet you did so. You violated our truce."

" _I_  don't remember  _agreeing_  to a truce, Madame Muad'Dib," Pegasus said, waving his index finger in a chastising manner. "I remember seeing rather unsavory memories from a dull past and deciding it wasn't worth the effort of prying."

Isis glared. How she wished so often her past had been dull. There were so many days she wished she could have swapped lives with a vendor in Aswan and sailed on the Nile in leisure without the worry of the Gods ripping the earth asunder. She could only dream of a past where it hadn't been tainted with old rituals and bloodshed.

"You are such a martyr, you know that?" Pegasus said, almost dangling his guidebook as he leaned forward. "How about we both take a dip in Cleopatra's Bath? That should clear your head and soothe your nerves." He purred with the last words and Isis shook her head with a sharp whip of her hair.

"We don't have time for that, Pegasus. My associates are expecting us at Fatnas Island. We must move now."

"Pity," Pegasus droned, lifting from his seat. "I'd fight you more on the matter, but  _Frommer's_  claims the cafes at Fatnas are worth the trip." He fanned the book at the back of her head as she walked away from him.

"While I myself would enjoy sitting down and listening to the storytellers on Fatnas, that is not our reason for being there, Mr. Crawford." She became more mindful of the suitcase she held in her right hand and momentarily thought of how absurd they must have looked: a young Egyptian woman dressed in khaki fatigues followed by a Westerner dressed like a Saudi waving a book in the air.

"Well, how about this," Pegasus said in a bargaining tone. "You go and hide the Gods on the island, and I'll stay here and take a desert safari until you come back."

"I am only hiding  _one_  God on Fatnas, Mr. Crawford," Isis specified. "Moreover, if it was not necessary for you to attend, I would not have brought you along with me."

"Actually..." Pegasus began. " _Why_  is it necessary for me to come along when you've clearly made all the arrangements?"

"Your attempt to recreate the divine and bring them to the mortal plain was the catalyst for this event, Mr. Crawford.  _You_  brought the Gods here, with us, and it is only right that you should see them off into their slumber. I have  _foreseen_  it, and it  _will_  be done."

Pegasus rolled his biological eye.

"Well, I suppose that makes sense to you, but what am I expected to do when it's time for your  _salat_?"

At this, Isis stopped and went rigid. She looked over her shoulder and for a moment, Pegasus thought he saw a lick of fire behind her pupils.

"You know,  _salat_?" Pegasus gestured vaguely to his guidebook. "Prayers? I'm fine to observe it, but I just think it's odd for you to claim time is of the essence when I imagine you will have to stop what you're doing every couple of hours and—"

"I know very well what  _salat_  is, Mr. Crawford," Isis said in a low tone, turning towards him completely. "Just how much did you see when I revealed my history to you in the convoy?"

"Truthfully? The bloody bits. It was all rather unpleasant," Pegasus said with a sense of repugnance.

"Yes, it was," Isis confirmed with a strong frown. "What else did you take away?"

"That you were underground?" Pegasus asked, moving his hands in a pushing motion with the palms facing down.

"Yes, and have you any thought as to  _why_  we were underground, Mr. Crawford?"

"Because of... corruption?" That was as much thought as Pegasus had to the ordeal. He could feel the hair raising on the back of his neck as Isis approached him with a step.

"Corruption," she repeated. The word was flat, bitter. "I can use that."

"Use it for what?"

"An example to build upon," Isis said, taking another step. "Mr. Crawford, my family has been entrusted with keeping the Memories of the Nameless Pharaoh for some millennia. Now, with that in mind, that would mean that my family's duties began thousands of years ago, when Pharaohs were widely regarded as gods in the flesh. For what reason would a family have to hide from a world that shares their belief?"

"Well, that wouldn't make much sense for the time period—"

" _Indeed_ , Mr. Crawford, it did not make sense. At the beginning of their task, my ancestors maintained the tomb and the temples in the surrounding area, in open view and glory of the sun for quite some time. However, as an archaeologist and bearer of the Millennium Torque, I can tell you with certainty that things  _change_  over time."

Pegasus felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He remembered her rant back in the Lada Niva and her commentary on the Sufis.

"Invaders?"

"If you want to be simple about it," Isis spoke quickly, venom tinting the edges of her voice. "Since the death of the Nameless Pharaoh in the Middle Kingdom, there have been armies from many empires who have dominated everything in their path. In  _their_  wake, monuments from the Golden Age of the Pharaohs became things from the Age of Ignorance and needed to be wiped from the face of the earth. So go the relics, so go the people, and with them, goes the  _history_."

"Oh," Pegasus said dejectedly. He wondered, in that moment, how many people like Isis were left in the world, and what had been lost with those who didn't have the fortune of surviving.

"What choice did my ancestors have?" Isis said, instinctively brushing her fingers over the Torque. "I  _felt_  their anguish when they were forced to tear down their temples and deface their gods, but they knew the incoming armies would have no interest searching a place that already appeared to be in ruin. No harm would come if they hid underground; the Memories of the Nameless Pharaoh and the Egyptian Gods would be safe."

"... So I take it you don't practice  _salat_ , then?" Pegasus asked. Isis' posture crumbled an iota in response.

"My  _g_ _ods_  are old, Pegasus," Isis began, thinking of a prayer her mother taught her long ago. "I hold in reverence the Sun that travels across the Sky and brings warmth to the Earth to guide us by day. I hold dear the Moon that commands the Tides and the Stars that guide us by night. I take pleasure in the Wind that crosses the sand and cools my brow in my labors. I love so the Water that feeds the crops and gives me relief in my times of reflection. Above all, I hold highest in my heart the Nameless Pharaoh who is to return and save this world from lighting ablaze, and I fear the awesome might of the Three."

She held the suitcase between them.

"What I hold, Pegasus, is limitless power. You have  _felt_  them and you  _know_  they are real. We must make haste and hide them. As such, I will not spend anymore time speaking with you about how I refuse to bow to the severely deformed head of Astarte."

Pegasus stood there, confused, before fingering the pages of his guidebook. With a sense of finality, Isis turned and began to walk again.

"I assure you, Mr. Crawford, they will not put that piece of trivia in  _Frommer's_."

* * *

Author's Notes: Isis, for all her mysticism, can be a bit of a know-it-all if you read between the lines in the series. As such, I can't help but think she would have some scathing comments on how modern Egyptian society turned out compared to that of ancient Egypt. There will be some more thoughts on that in the next chapter.

Madame Muad'Dib – For those who have not read the book, watched the movie, or watched the Thug Notes analysis of _Dune_ , this is a reference to the central character Paul Muad'Dib, who could see the past, present, and an inevitably disastrous future all at once after munching on a ton of space spice in the desert for a while. Obviously, Pegasus thinks the name would be fitting for Isis due the abilities granted to her by the Torque, and perhaps an isolated hookah experience at university.

I guess I imagine Isis to be 18-19 here and Pegasus at 22. Clearly this takes place before the events of the first season, but it's a crapshoot just how far this adventure-fest happened. Things get out of whack for me when I try to come up with a good timeline because the series shows Isis and Malik playing Duel Monsters underground, which would put them at 11 and 15-ish when the crap show with Y. Malik happened, but Pegasus took the trip to Egypt when he was 17 and shortly created Duel Monsters afterward. So if he's 4 years older than Isis, then that means he had precisely a year of "reasonable" development time to make the game go global. Maybe Isis got a hold of the first booster packs when she was 14 before it all hit the fan?

I dunno. Screw it. It's fanfiction. I do what I want.


	2. RA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Much of this chapter contains religious and culturally sensitive components concerning Isis' gender, racial background, and beliefs being held in contention in modern, Sunni-dominated society, along with internalized misogyny and child abuse due to her upbringing with her father. I tried not to get too heavy-handed with it, but at the same time, since I am attempting to integrate a sense of realism to the story, it didn't feel right to turn a blind eye to what would likely be aspects she would have to live with and think about on a day-to-day basis. Make of it what you will.
> 
> Also, mentions to ancient peoples having no qualms or cares to our modern sensibilities regarding genitals.
> 
> And finally, long chapter is long. Have a pee break scheduled.

**RA**

 

 _Look out my window and what do I see_  
_A crack in the sky and a hand reaching down to me_  
_All of the nightmares came today_  
_And it looks as though they're here to stay_

David Bowie, _Oh! You Pretty Things_

 

* * *

 

She remembered the first time she saw Cairo. It was not in the frame of a windshield or through her own eyes, but in a vision, and she decided she had no fondness for it. She was not an urbanite, not a fan of concrete and steel. She craved the sand, the sky, the river. She felt at piece with the ruins, with the desert and delta, with the sun on her skin and the wind at her back.

 

She had no fondness for Cairo, with its towers, its cars, its masses of people. Even with the Pyramids of Giza in view, she felt lost and trapped in the city. She didn't belong there, and knew she never fully would.

 

She felt a oneness with the temples, the Torque laying before her the gardens that once flourished in the desert landscape, the empires that once were and never would be again. Devout as she was to the Nameless Pharaoh in the present, she found herself wondering what could have been, had she been born in the past. Her dreams drifted to the Middle Kingdom, a deep sense of longing for the Golden Age. Or perhaps, not too far back, but far enough for comfort. What would have happened had she been born at the beginning of the 20th century, to meet Om Seti in Abydos and stand in the presence of a woman who had eyes to the past without the need for cursed gold?

 

She cast the fantasies aside as quickly as she conjured them, for it was useless to dream.

 

She had no fondness for Cairo, but Fate had no care for what she felt or wanted. The capital was where opportunity lied, where her path awaited and would continue. It was where she needed to be and where she would remain until it was time to depart the Land of the Pharaohs for the Land of the Rising Sun, as Fate intended. Her reality was set, solid as the stone of the ancient remnants she admired and equally condemned to crumble into ruin.

 

She had no fondness for Cairo, a place where she saw civilizations and people collapse into annals of obscurity, a reminder of her own insignificance to the grander scheme of things. How small, how pitiful she was in the eyes of the gods she revered and feared so. It made her ill and humble all at once.

 

She had no fondness for Cairo, but she had no choice but to go. Fate did not favor sentimentality or desire, for Fate was a cruel god who valued time and purpose. Despite her namesake, Isis Ishtar was not a god. Yet with the Millennium Torque, she knew she was not a mere mortal, either. She was a medium, a line to the oracles who came before her, an instrument of the Divine. Armed with this knowledge, she would ride upon the Wheel for as long as Fate and Fortune would allow, until it was time for her to fall and be crushed beneath like so many who stood in the wake of the gods.

 

She had foreseen it.

 

\- 0 – 0 – 0 -

 

After departing from the Siwa Oasis, they had driven south and stopped in the city of Luxor. It was partially done in an effort to throw her brother off their trail with the erratic change in direction, but it was also done to stock up on supplies needed for their upcoming travel to the next site.

 

Isis had also received news she was to provide an extra set of hands in the Valley of the Kings, a place so close and so far from what she once called 'home'. She wished she could have left Pegasus behind and picked him up when she returned from the excavation site, but the Torque showed otherwise. Pegasus _needed_ to stay with her until the end of their duty, their ritual burial of the Gods. It was foreseen, so it would be.

 

Regrettably.

 

“Is there anything I could do around here? I'm _terribly_ bored.”

 

Pegasus stood at the entryway of the tent, no longer looking like a Saudi prince and more like a working archaeologist, sporting khaki fatigues very much like her own. He did have the mind to value her earlier advice and traded his ascot for a red-and-black checkered shemagh he purchased back at the Siwa Oasis. He tugged on it in an effort to cool his neck as the flaps of the tent entrance closed behind him. The rattle and hum of a generator could be heard just outside the tent, providing much-needed air conditioning in the small space. The tapping of keys on a laptop broke inbetween the mechanical noise and bouts of her flipping through pages at her work station near the rear of the tent.

 

She sat on a hard metal chair at a scuffed, white folding table surrounded by boxes with newly catalogued artifacts and packed manila folders, much like what she was holding in one hand while she typed into a laptop with the other. She stole a quick glance at him over the screen of her computer before turning her attention back to her work.

 

“Do no whine, Mr. Crawford. I took great liberty taking you with me to this excavation instead of leaving you at the hotel in Luxor.”

 

“The liberty of having another man watch you plug data into a spreadsheet?”

 

Pegasus gasped at the sudden realization there was another occupant in the tent with her. The olive green interior had sunlight spilling in from the small, open flaps that served as windows while the main entrance to Isis' tent stayed closed for a semblance of privacy. There were some areas of the tent where the light failed to fall, and from one of those areas, the far right corner, Pegasus saw an elderly gentleman appear with yet another manila folder in hand.

 

He wore a beige polo shirt and tan shorts with hiking boots, much like every other person on the site. In that, the older man's initial appearance was not memorable. He was of average height with a wiry build, his cloudy grey hair fashioned into a subtle pompadour. His pale skin tone was much like Pegasus', hinting to an Anglicized lineage. The gentleman was not brawny by any means, but appeared to be in better health than most men his age with a few characteristic wrinkles on his face and defined muscles in his forearms. The crow's feet at the corner of the man's green eyes turned upwards with his grey mustache as he approached Isis.

 

“Would you like to take over my duties, Doctor Hopkins?”

 

“Miss Ishtar, please, you do not need to use such a formal title when you address me,” the man called Doctor Hopkins replied cheerily. “ _Professor_ Hopkins will suffice.”

 

“My sincerest apologies, _Professor_ Hopkins. Would you like to take over my duties?”

 

He chuckled and gave her a gentle pat on the back.

 

“And deprive you of this career-building experience? I would not dare.” With that, he dropped the folder he was holding on the tall pile to her left and she shook her head in response. Pegasus blinked and tilted his head. Despite the refusal of the old professor, he saw a small smile on the tan lips, before she settled them back into their neutral line. Professor Hopkins walked to her other side and picked up a clipboard, flipping through her notes with a clinical eye before looking over at Pegasus.

 

“Ah, how rude of me! I made an effort of annoying poor Miss Ishtar, yet I neglected you pleasure of introducing myself. I am Arthur Hopkins, the senior excavator on site, though that's not saying very much," he quipped. Pegasus shook the man's outstretched hand and smiled. There was a spark of enthusiasm to the man's tone and body language that was a stark contrast to Isis' reserved nature.

 

“I am Pegasus J. Crawford,” he replied simply. Arthur's eyes brightened at that.

 

“The _creator_ of Duel Monsters? No wonder Isis invited you to come along!” Arthur said, releasing Pegasus' hand. “Though I must say it is odd you came to this site. It has very little to do with ancient creatures and more to do with human history. I doubt some of what we found here would be appropriate material for your trading card game.”

 

Pegasus lifted a brow.

 

“I am Mr. Crawford's guide while he is here on business,” Isis interjected, not taking her eyes off her screen. “It would be poor of me to abandon him despite my other responsibilities.”

 

“The responsibility of filling a spreadsheet?” Pegasus repeated, opening his hands to expose his palms. “Why all the paperwork? I don't remember my private team dealing with all of this last time I came to Egypt.” He waved vaguely at the boxes and folders surrounding Isis.

 

“Because they were a privately funded team by a tycoon who deals with trading cards,” Isis said plainly. “You don't remember because you did not make it your business to ask for their records.”

 

“Snippety, are we?” Pegasus asked, crossing his arms with a huff.

 

“What Miss Ishtar means to say,” Arthur began, smile never leaving his face, “there's more to the job than treasure hunting. When people say they want to be an archaeologist, what most don't realize is what they _really_ want to be is a historian.”

 

Pegasus responded with a queried look.

 

“People enjoy _reading_ history, but they seldom want to partake or study the science behind _obtaining_ the history. Many don't acknowledge how much geologic aptitude and legalities are involved with the profession. Sediment composition, carbon dating...”

 

“Acquiring permits, measuring dimensions of sites,” Isis added, somewhat sorely, as though she was recalling a hundred headaches at once.

 

“Most of those papers Miss Ishtar has to enter into the computer are essentially telling her how much dirt has been moved for the past week. Another quarter of the records are listing what was or wasn't found at the site, and an even smaller percentage giving a detailed description of an artifact.”

 

“Riveting,” Pegasus said, his expression and tone the polar opposite of the word.

 

“I know it all sounds about as exciting as watching paint dry, but it's integral to the job,” Arthur said while Isis continued to type. “Archaeology is the science of what _was_. Reputable science is defined by what _is_ , not what we wish for the results to be. That's why the community rejoices whenever we find an old scroll or tablet intact. A pot with intricate artwork may be nice to look at, but we don't have solid evidence of the pot's significance or symbolism to a culture without some sort of record from the time to give it appropriate context.”

 

“Although, with what was found today, the context is not difficult to see.”

 

“Indeed!” Arthur grinned. “It is so amusing to think ancient peoples are perceived as simple by the masses, yet were somehow more enlightened about themselves than we in the present.”

 

Pegasus glanced back and forth in confusion before Isis gestured to one of many boxes piled against her desk.

 

“Pegasus, I am done with the catalogue regarding these artifacts. Can you move them for me to the other pile, please?”

 

Pegasus' hands twitched along with his eye at the order.

 

“Is there something wrong?” Isis asked, closing the manila folder she was originally holding and reaching for another. “I thought you were _whinging_ that you wanted something to do.”

 

“I was thinking more along the lines of–”

 

“Helping with a dig? On my government's watch and dime, I think not,” Isis quickly, coolly stated. “Please move it. I've many more I need to record.”

 

Pegasus walked over to where she sat and, with a haughty attitude, reached down for the requested box. With an audible huff, he lifted it from the ground with some effort due to its weight. Odd, considering the box was not much larger than a carrier for a cat or small dog. The top was open, as all of them were, and his eye widened when he looked down and glanced at its contents.  
  
“Wha–?”

 

“Please don't stand and gawk, Mr. Crawford. Your duty is simple in that you only have to move them and close the top when you are done. I have already recorded the information of 23 and must do so for the remaining 16 found.”

 

Isis looked spectacularly unamused. Pegasus, not one to easily obey authority, continued to stand and stare at what was in his hands.

 

“Have some sympathy for the poor young man, Isis!” Arthur chided with a smile. “You must forgive Miss Ishtar. We in the field are quite accustomed to such findings.”

 

Pegasus recovered his mind and closed his mouth before he uttered the words needed for the situation.

 

“You find golden phalluses on a regular basis?”

 

“Well, not always _gold_ , per se,” Arthur said. “Why, I remember my first independent excavation! I had just gotten out of the Navy with two PhDs. I thought after spending 20 years around the world and obtaining my doctorates, I knew it all. I thought wrong!”

 

Isis' chest moved in a deep motion, a repressed sigh as she looked at another folder. This story, again?

 

“I remember like it was yesterday,” Arthur reminisced, reaching behind Pegasus and grabbing a shoulder with one hand, bringing the silver-haired man to his side. Arthur spread out his other hand and moved it across in a motion as though he were trying to conjure a landscape from memory alone. Pegasus made an attempt to read the his mind and viewed the setting.

 

“I was in the jungles of Africa. My first artifact was a fertility god of black stone, about a foot tall and half that in width, but the appendage on it!”

 

Pegasus immediately got out of the man's head when he saw it.

 

“Fascinating! It was just as tall as the statue and had the diameter of a coke can!” Arthur recalled as he made the shape with his free hand like he was pouring out a drink. “I found eight more like it that day! Little did I understand that the course of human history was wrought with an openness that is so strongly opposed today in so-called 'civilized' society. It's an interesting trend.”

 

Pegasus nodded dumbly at the older man's enthusiasm, deciding that he had finally met another human who bested him in unsettling others with passion alone (which was not an easy task). Arthur leaned into Pegasus' face and turned him away from Isis, covering his mouth as though to hide the words between them in secrecy.

 

“Though, to be completely honest with you, between my naval and archaeological careers, I've never had any qualms about it myself. It took three divorces and a particularly nasty run-in with a group of militants in the Philippines to quell my ways.”

 

Pegasus raised an eyebrow in appreciation at the older man's exploits. If he had a drink in hand, he would have tipped it out of respect. Isis, on the other hand, rolled her eyes to the ceiling and shook her head.

 

“Are the two of you done whispering over there so my delicate ears will not burn from embarrassment? I suppose I shall thank you for sparing them as my poor eyes are forever rendered unsuitable for marriage after assessing the authenticity of reproductive charms.”

 

Arthur released Pegasus' shoulder and smiled in sympathy.

 

“I'm terribly sorry the Council called you all the way out here for that, Isis. We could have had a student from university assist for a credit, but they had no mind to listen to an old dog who speaks of trading cards and wall carvings.”

 

“Do not speak of yourself in such a manner, Professor Hopkins. Your theories may have been considered radical, but your knowledge and experience have contributed greatly to the community for many a decade. If the Council refused your words, it is due to their own blindness, not your admissions. It is always a pleasure to work with you, even with things like this.”

 

“So you say, Miss Ishtar. She's _far_ more patient than I was at her age,” Arthur murmured the last sentence, curving the back of his hand around one side of his mouth, his mustache slanting in a smirk. “And far more humble.”

 

“I don't know about that,” Pegasus said in a low tone, eye looking off to the side. Isis pretended she didn't hear it.

 

“Oh, don't take it personally if she's a tad brash with you, lad. She has quite a lot on her plate with being the Assistant Secretary General. Not too shabby for a post gra—Oh!” Arthur exclaimed, pointing to the ceiling at a sudden thought.

 

“That reminds me, Isis. Have you finished your Master's thesis yet?”

 

“I'm close,” Isis replied quietly, eyes still focused on the screen before her. “I still need to rework some of it, but I should have it completed well within the month.”

 

“Good to know. See to it that I receive the draft and your sources for review before your submission. Lord knows I've done enough of the awful things in my time; you shouldn't suffer so needlessly if I can help you with anything before you cross the finish line.”

 

“Of course,” Isis replied with a nod.

 

“In the meantime, while you work on that, “Arthur gestured to the laptop, “I'll be off to do another check-up so you can complete your spreadsheets in peace.” Isis looked up from the screen and tensed her shoulders, furrowing her brow before her eyes widened in realization.

 

“Professor Hopkins, you do not need to do that for me.” Her fingers quickly hit the hot keys for saving the document and made a motion to rise from her seat. “You've done enough. You've been running around in the heat while I've been in the tent all day. You need to rest. Let me do the site survey. I can return to–”

 

“My goodness, I _wish_ I hadn't forgotten my hearing aids back in the States. I'm _so_ forgetful,” Arthur hummed as he turned on his heel.

 

“You don't _own_ hearing aids–”

 

“Curse my old age! I can't hear a word! Oh, well, I guess I'll just have to mosey about and stick my nose in everyone's business while the brilliant Miss Ishtar records data and the strapping young Mr. Crawford assists her with her duties. I'm sure _no_ nonsense will come of two young people alone in a tent at all.”

 

A wide smile spread across Pegasus' face. He wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh at the older man's joke or at the sudden flush of red that crossed Isis' cheeks. She stood up from her chair with a quickness.

 

“Professor Hopkins, if you are implying–”

 

“By the way, Miss Ishtar,” Arthur interrupted, looking over his shoulder as he grabbed the flap to the entrance, having a sudden imperious air about him. “I do not speak to you as an elder, but as a colleague and mentor; I have noticed that you have had a full bottle of water sitting on your desk for the past thirty minutes. I advise you start drinking it. Staying hydrated is important in this environment. I understand your work is important to you, but your health and well being are paramount. Acclimated as you are, you are still only human. I expect that bottle to be finished when I get back.”

 

“Professor–”

 

“Hydrate, Isis!”

 

With that, he was gone. Begrudgingly, Isis sat back down and sighed, taking hold of the bottled water and unscrewing the cap with mild annoyance.

 

“I think I have new a role model,” Pegasus said. He placed the box down where he stood, his arms having grown tired in short time from the heavy weight.

 

“He is a clever man,” Isis acknowledged with a sip of water. “Yet he straddles a fine line between eccentricity and senility. I worry about him sometimes.”

 

“What he _has_ is a sense of humor,” Pegasus said. “One would think it would kill you to smile more. I think you could learn more from him aside from academics. You could benefit from having a better father figure in your life.”

 

Isis stopped drinking water and slowly lowered the plastic bottle from her lips. She eyed him, coldly, and Pegasus lifted his hands with a careless shrug.

 

“I am just saying, he seems a lot nicer and more willing to help you than that cantankerous fellow with the whip I saw in your memories.”

 

“You have no standing to speak on the matters of my family,” Isis nearly hissed, rising once again from her seat.

 

“Is that so?” Pegasus challenged, crossing his arms. “Why don't you run it by me again why _I'm_ here?”

 

“It was _your_ hand that brought the Egyptian Gods to the realm of man. You–”

 

“ _I_ do not deny my actions, Madame Muad’Dib, but we wouldn’t need to be jerked to and fro if it wasn’t for your _insane_ brother–”

 

“He is not insane; he needs _help_!” Isis stepped to the side of her desk, fingers trailing the edges in an attempt to anchor them in place and curb her intent to slap the man across the face.

 

“I agree wholeheartedly. With such violent impulses, I think your entire family needs counseling.”

 

“How dare you.” Isis’ fingers left the table top and she stepped towards him. Pegasus stood his ground with pursed lips, looking disinterested in the situation as he inspected his cuticles. The Egyptian woman surprised him by curling her hand into a fist and extended her index finger, beginning to lecture him.

 

“There are bigger things at work here. I…”

 

It took Pegasus a few seconds to look up from his fingernails and gasped. Her eyes had glazed over and her arms hung limply at her sides, the pupil of the Millennium Torque glowing, pulsing. Was she having a vision? He made an attempt with his Millennium Eye to peek at what she was witnessing, but shook his head and grimaced as he felt a surge of static run through his Item. Whatever power controlled the Torque was blocking him from viewing. He opted, instead, to place a finger to the side of his cheek and tilt his head, waiting patiently.

 

Within Isis’ mind, the vision played as an erratic clip show. She saw Pegasus seated in shadows, a dark table surrounded by businessmen; she saw a child with a wild mane of black hair screaming in the grasp of a security guard behind him; she saw the child bound in chains in a dungeon, eyes dull and body limp; she saw Pegasus leaning over a table, three cards with different faces lined on the surface; Pegasus turned to stare at and through Isis, whispering, with great regret, “I _must_ do this for you. It is the _only_ way.”

 

The last she saw was Pegasus weeping before a portrait of a slender young woman with golden hair and cobalt blue eyes, his fingers brushing the face with a forlorn reverence as his forehead rested against the canvas.

 

She snapped out of the vision with a gasp, clasping her head in her hands.

 

The man before her… he would kidnap a child… steal the souls of innocent people… had an agenda with lost lover…

 

Pegasus hadn't been able to read her mind and he frowned, pitying the woman in her current state. Surely, the vision must have been terrible to shake someone who took so much pride in appearing so prim and composed. He reached out and brushed her forearm with his fingers in an effort to comfort her.

 

“Don’t touch me!” she gasped. She needed more time to process what she had seen, had felt. She couldn’t be around Pegasus in this state. She reeled away from him and found herself stumbling back when her heel caught the edge of the box Pegasus hadn’t moved. On instinct, Pegasus reached forward and grabbed her wrist to prevent her from plunging to the ground, jerking her towards him with a tug.

 

She froze, stunned as she found herself wrapped in Pegasus’ arms, her hands on his chest and her nose against his red shemagh.

 

 _Goodness, th_ _is_ _man’s sweat could inundate a field..._

 

“Isis, I am loathe to give you the news, but the Secretary General is here and–”

 

Arthur Hopkins stopped when he saw Pegasus and Isis lift their heads away from one another and stared like deer caught in headlights. The elder took in the state of the two and coughed into his right hand.

 

“I see. Well, shall I tell him you will meet with him in 20 minutes?” Arthur made a motion to turn on his heel, but looked over his shoulder with an afterthought. “30 minutes?”

 

Isis gathered herself, pushing off of Pegasus’ chest.

 

“It’s not what it looks like,” she said, brushing imaginary dust from the front of her blouse. Arthur’s mustache twitched and the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes turned upward.

 

“So, 15 minutes, then?” he quipped. Pegasus merely blinked as Isis brushed past Arthur without any eye contact, head bowed and lips pursed, and made a hasty exit from the tent.

 

“Oh, to be that age again,” Arthur chuckled with his chin in his hands. “Did I interrupt something?”

 

“Nothing vital,” Pegasus said with a casual roll of his shoulders. She left in a hurry, undoubtedly to save face, but he remembered what Arthur had said coming into the tent.

 

“The Secretary General?” Pegasus began. This mystery person must have had a good deal of influence for Isis to respond so quickly to their arrival. Arthur rolled his wrist with his eyes at the topic.

 

“Her boss,” Arthur said simply. “Quite an unpleasant fellow, even by a bureaucratic standard. Though, if what is said around the Council is to be true, he hasn't done much work since Isis was appointed as his Assistant. How does the phrase go? 'He who sits atop the pyramid only does so upon the back of those who built the foundation.' I'm sure this impromptu little 'visit' is about reviewing work she's already done. Nothing exciting to report, and I'm sure it's to be a private discussion between Egyptian officials, all of it classified government business, nothing interesting in the least.”

 

Pegasus looked to the ground in response. If she was off doing that, what was he supposed to do in the tent while he waited for the meeting to finish?

 

“So, with all that said,” Arthur spoke again. “Care to accompany me so we can eavesdrop?”

 

\- 0 – 0 – 0 -

 

There had been no need for the Americans to apply any effort to spying or eavesdropping. Unlike Arthur's initial assumption, the Secretary General had no qualms about airing out his grievances in public. A small crowd had gathered around the commotion at the center of the excavation site, and they gazed over the audience from the back. At just over six feet, Pegasus was tall by his country's standards, and Arthur stood roughly six inches above the average Egyptian. They also had no trouble hearing the conversation, as the Secretary General seemed intent on reaching the limitations of his vocal cords.

 

“ _Explain this to me! Now_!”

 

“ _It is one of my functions to act as the Secretary General in your_ _absence_ _abroad_ _. Under the appropriate protocols–”_

 

“ _This goes beyond protocol! Explain this mess you've created!”_

 

A squat, balding, middle-aged Arab man with grey hair waved a manila folder about with his ranting, sweat dripping off a nose that reminded Pegasus of a vulture's beak. There were two large, wet stains underneath the arms of his suit and the collar of his blouse, poorly dressed for the weather and the environment as a thin coat of sand dusted over his black attire. His face was more red than tan, no doubt attributed to his rage. At his full height, he came just below Isis' chin, a fact she appeared to be exploiting if her posture was any indication. She was quite militant in her stance, hands to her sides and staring straight ahead with only her eyes moving to address at her boss' face below hers.

 

She was nearly a reflection of the four guards that flanked the Secretary General. They were all dressed in khaki fatigues with tan berets atop their heads, each cradling a Sig SG 552 Commando carbine attached to a sling. The guard to the Secretary General's immediate right had angular features with a pale complexion and a black, tapered English mustache. The one behind him in the formation had a slightly darker complexion with thick eyebrows and a full beard that was so dark it bore a blue tint in the light. The guard across from that one was the only clean shaven man of the bunch with rigid, blocky cheeks and a square jaw that made him appear as though someone had tried to carve a face into a tan brick and quit half-way through the attempt. The final guard to the front-left dwarfed all the others, a biblical Goliath sporting a pointed, short boxed beard and looked as though he could stop a small car with his bulk alone; Pegasus was certain the man could crush his skull like a grapefruit.

 

“It must be hard for them to stand alongside him,” Arthur muttered. “They've been quite protective of Isis since she started working for the Council, probably more so when the Secretary General left for his extended vacation and she took over his responsibilities. As a former military man myself, I understand the professionalism needed in regard to one's duty, but I don't think they're particularly enthusiastic about his return.”

 

Upon closer inspection, Pegasus did notice that each man bore an embittered quality to their eyes as they stayed anchored in place alongside the Secretary General. Each guard was equally capable of snapping a man's neck like a dried twig, yet they were powerless to stop the verbal tirade on Isis.

 

_So the little desert mouse commands lions. Well, aren't you an interesting one, Madame Muad'dib?_

 

Pegasus squinted at the sight with a small pout. Naturally, Isis and her boss would be conversing in Arabic, but there was some lamentation in that it made the drama a little harder to follow from his perspective.

 

“Do you speak any Arabic?” Arthur asked.

 

“I'm not _fluent_ , but I know some colloquial phrases,” Pegasus replied. “And I dare say the nonverbals are universal.”

 

The Secretary General continued to flap and wave his arms wildly about with his screeching as Isis remained stoic in posture and voice, a showdown between a squawking buzzard and an indomitable statue.

 

“ _Wh_ _at is all this?!”_ he shouted, waving letters in the air and pointing to highlighted text. _“What business does the Council have with the Cleanliness Authority? And all this from the Ministry of Tourism? This talk of working closer with the Zabbaleen?_ ”

 

“ _It concerns the Council's business in that the condition of our millennia old monuments are being threatened by waste products created in the last century,_ ” Isis said evenly. “ _It hurts the image of our country when a tourist is trying to take a picture of the Sphinx and their shots are bombarded with plastic bags. I have already spoken in detail with both the Head of the Cleanliness Authority and the Minister of Tourism. It is all in agreement there is a need for a better system than dumping everything in Manshiyat Naser without regard to its citizens and the aftermath_ _to Cairo_ _as a whole._ ”

 

“ _So you want to win a philanthropy award, is that it?_ ” he growled.

 

“ _I want to preserve the culture of my country,_ ” Isis countered. “ _It is my duty as the Assistant_ _Secretary_ _General of the Council. When appointed the position, I took an oath–”_

 

“ _I know about the oath! I'm the_ Secretary General _!”_ he barked with the emphasis of his rank. _“Preserve the culture of_ your _country? Then explain this to me!”_

 

He almost tore the folder in half when he yanked out the last stack of papers. Her eyes remained impassive and her hair moved in a small gust when he nearly swatted her face with the content. The right hand of the tallest guard drifted off the grip of his carbine and moved to grab at the Secretary General's neck with a nasty curl to his lips. The clean shaven, brick-faced guard that stood behind him gripped at his wrist to restrain him before he could do something he'd regret later. The tall guard looked over his shoulder and exchanged a brief glance in understanding, reminding himself with disdain they all had to maintain their discipline. The other two guards took deep breaths in cadence to quell the burning in their chests.

 

“ _'_ _International Exhibition_ _'! What is this nonsense?!”_

 

Her eyes flinched at the words, but she kept her chin up.

 

“ _It's–_ ”

 

“ _The Supreme Council of Antiquities exists for the interest of_ Egyptian _artifacts! What is all this?_ ” He crumpled the edges of the papers in his fists as he grasped individual pages and shifted through them without mind to keeping them in order. “ _Arrangements with Jordan, Iraq, Syria,_ _Iran, Turkey,_ _Lebanon,_ Israel _?! What_ _a_ _re you thinking?!_ ”

 

“ _Egypt is fortunate in_ _that there is a vested interest in our history that feeds into our tourism and commerce. Other countries are not so fortunate, and the_ _preservation of their own antiquities_ _suffer as a result of modern crisis._ _Utilizing methods that have been proven to work within our own country, t_ _he International Exhibition is a collaborative effort between archaeological societies, a unifying display between_ _countries_ _in order to enlighten the public at large to the overarching history of the region and call to preserve ancient–”_

 

“ _By 'preserve', you mean to say 'spread',”_ he accused, flashing yet another page in front of her face with a shaking hand. _“'Daughters of the Crescent'?”_

 

“ _It's a working title for_ one _of the planned exhibits,”_ Isis said quickly, eyes narrowing with conviction. _“Remnants of_ _the_ _old_ _religions_ _are but one of the facets being lost on a daily basis._ _With each passing year, people are denied access to_ _the_ _knowledge regarding the history of their_ _prede_ _c_ _es_ _s_ _ors_ _._ _T_ _here is a commonality across the_ _region_ _regarding–”_

 

“ _I'm fully aware of such history,_ Isis Ishtar _,”_ he enunciated her name with a bristled hiss. _“It has fallen out of favor for a reason.”_

 

Her chest rose, slowly, mindful to keep her face steady with her hands clenched in firm fists at her sides. Arthur brushed his mustache once in observation before holding his chin in between his fingers.

 

_Come on, Isis. Don't take that._

 

Pegasus found Arthur disappointed when she averted her eyes to the side.

 

“ _You hide behind_ _a_ _gui_ _s_ _e of logic_ _and_ _enlightenment_ _, but I am wise to your games,”_ the Secretary General lectured. _“This is not the first time you have undermined my authority! Everything you do is an attempt to usurp my position and push your perverse agenda!”_

 

Pegasus smiled underneath his hand as Arthur's eyes narrowed with another thought in English.

 

_You're only upset with her because people have recognized she is the one working while you abuse the Council's budget to take extended vacations to Europe._

 

Isis remained quiet and her attention dipped to the ground in consternation. Pegasus noticed the eye of her Millennium Torque glow, and it quickly disappeared when Isis blinked with an air of irritation.

 

“ _... It is no matter. I am back,”_ sighed the Secretary General. _“I'll handle all the nonsense concerning the garbage issue while you cancel the International Exhibition.”_

 

A gasp escaped from Isis' lips and, for a brief instance, her eyes blanched.

 

“ _The project has been underway for months! To call for cancellation at this point after everyone's committed their time and research, their budgets–”_

 

“ _No excuses,_ Assistant _Secretary_ _General,_ ” he silenced her with the mention of her rank, though with the tone he had used, he may as well have been telling her to fetch a cup of coffee. She gritted her teeth in futility at the reminder, and the guards looked as though they were ashamed, unable to protest on her behalf.

 

“ _Call who you must. I want_ _it_ _cancelled. That is an order.”_

 

“ _... Yes, sir.”_ She bowed her head and the words clung to her mouth like sour grapes.

 

“ _Overstep your bounds again, and I will see to it personally to relieve you of your position.”_

 

“ _Yes, sir.”_

 

She reached for the large stack of papers in his outstretched hand, half a year's worth of her work and efforts. Her tan fingertips barely brushed the pages before he raised them up and slapped them onto the dusty ground between them. As the puff of sand settled on her boots, her head craned to stare at the papers and a shadow cast itself over her face. Her lip quivered along with the kohl lining of her eyes, and her fists began to tremble.

 

 _She looks like she wants to cry,_ Arthur thought ruefully.

 

Pegasus arched his brow and settled his fingers over the Millennium Eye, humming at his own observation. Isis did indeed want to cry, but not out of fear, sorrow, or loss. What he saw, what he _felt_ from her in that moment were the tears of a woman who wanted to rip someone apart.

 

Both Americans found themselves disappointed when she didn't act on instinct and subdued the expression with another deep breath, steadying her hands and donning her magnanimous mask again. Unaware or uncaring to the young woman's intentions to throttle him, the Secretary General glanced around at everyone who gathered to witness the altercation.

 

“ _What are you idiots gawking at?! Get back to work!_ ”

 

There was a rumble of footsteps and hurried mutters, an immediate dispersal at the command while Arthur and Pegasus stayed in their places. The Secretary General only turned on his heel when he saw Isis move to pick up the papers. He briefly looked over his shoulder as he walked away and she matched his glare, squatting on her haunches to recover her work; she refused to rest on her knees. The Secretary General curled his lip and looked away, beckoning the guards to follow him with a quick shout, but they did not obey.

 

They stood before Isis in a half-circle, and the guards with the English mustache and brick-like face both said something Arthur and Pegasus could not decipher as they knelt down to help her.

 

“ _It's fine,_ ” she shook her head and curtly waved him off with one hand as she sorted the pages back into their place with the other. The Secretary General shouted for them a second time, but still, they refused to step away from their place before her.

 

This time, the tallest guard and the shorter man (or rather, the one of average height) with a full, blue-tinted beard made a motion to kneel, but Isis stopped their attempts with another brusque wave.

 

“ _Go. I've got it._ ”

 

She focused her full attention on the stack and tapped it on the ground to avoid the guards' woeful stares. The men looked to each other and shared a collective shrug _—_ they knew better than to argue with her when she was like this. Obeying her wishes, they all nodded to her with their hands over their hearts and turned to join the Secretary General at where he fumed.

 

She brushed off the grains of sand as well as she could from the documents and wiped her hands on her pants with several harsh flicks. Her shoulders were stiff as she stood to her full height and refused to make eye contact with anyone on the site as she stormed back to her tent. All that could be heard was the chattering of the workers and the insults the Secretary General hurled at the guards as they stalked off.

 

“That fellow seems to have a short fuse,” Pegasus assessed flatly.

 

“He is an ass who would keep her in the dark,” Arthur growled. Pegasus blinked once not at the curse, but the resentment in his voice. “The show is over, so I advise you keep yourself entertained in the meantime, young man. I need to speak with her in private.”

 

Arthur did not wait for Pegasus to respond as he rushed forward and left to follow her.

 

\- 0 – 0 – 0 -

 

She remembered when her father called her to his study, the resting place of the Torque and Rod. It was no more different from the layout of the catacombs, all drab stone lit by candle, but the air was always colder where her father resided.

 

“I have noticed that you have been taking more frequent trips to the outside,” he had uttered to her, back turned as he sat at his limestone desk, half-heartedly rolling out a scroll for review. She stared past him, at the flickering flame, and hated how the seconds ticked by with the melting of wax. She took every opportunity to venture to the surface, for some evidence that time didn’t stand still and their vows weren’t in vain. She did not resist his observation.

 

“I have, Father,” she agreed softly, head bowed and hands crossed above her navel line. She was always mindful of her tone, her posture, her manners and courtesies, for his temper was legendary. She did all she could to suppress it with what action she was capable. It was not often her father requested, let alone acknowledged her presence. She recalled the times he struck her in 15 years and the faults behind them.

 

_At five years, a slap to the face: she knocked over a piece of pottery._

 

_At seven years, another slap to the same cheek: she spilled a pot of ink and ruined her robe— he was more upset she had tarnished a scroll and stained the writing desk._

 

_By eight years, she knew he favored leading with his right hand and learned to lift a palm to defend her left cheek: her ring and middle fingers sprained when he twisted them out of the way to strike her with the knuckles of his other hand— he did not appreciate the snide tone she had used when she said “Father”._

 

_At ten years, it was a blow that fractured her left cheek and jaw. She lost two molars and still remembers the metallic rush of blood in her mouth. It was a strike that was never meant for her— she was trying to protect Rishid._

 

_At thirteen years, she was bound to her bed and disrobed from neck to waist. The leather strap lashed across her lumbar 21 times— she had questioned the logic of her baby brother needing to come under the knife. Why could the Pharaoh's memory not be written on small tablets and hidden in multiple caches? He never gave her a straight answer, and she never asked again._

 

The offenses were few, but brutal. She never made the same mistake twice.

 

But Rishid did not make mistakes. He shared with her the misfortune of existing.

 

_Knuckles to his face, blows raining down like a storm after a drought._

 

_A whip to his back, blood feeding the cracks in the floor._

 

_Malik’s tears soaking through her robe as she hugged him to her chest and lied through her teeth, claiming everything would be okay, hoping desperately that her whispers covered Rishid’s howls in the halls._

 

There were days she wished she had been born as the son he had wanted. To be something or anything to take on the suffering of her brothers, to be _useful_ to them. To take on her little brother’s pain or have some power—the brute _strength_ — to counter her father’s heavy hand when it came down on Rishid. To save everyone the agony of their being in the tombs. Yet that wasn’t her life. She was Isis, the unwanted daughter, the middle child, the afterthought, and all the wishes to compensate for the sin of existing as she was would not be fulfilled.

 

Still, she prayed, and hoped for something better.

 

“It is dangerous outside,” he rumbled from his desk, rough and low, as though he was working sand out of his throat. She found herself holding onto her other hand tightly in response, anchoring herself in place. Her head remained bowed.

 

“I am aware,” Isis said carefully.

 

“Are you not afraid?” her father said, a suspicious tone to the words. “There is a reason we live in darkness, Daughter.”

 

“I understand, Father,” she said. “I am familiar with their views of people like us. I am willing to undertake the risk of venture for the sake of our clan.”

 

“There are many who will kill you if they learn what you are,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Or worse. I am told they mutilate their daughters.”

 

She tensed at the implication and found bile rising in her throat. As she grit her teeth, she was reminded of the intermittent pain whenever she chewed anything hard on the left side. At the mention of mutilation, there was a sympathy pain. She never underwent something so terrible, but she remembered pissing blood for a month after he had tied her to the bed and whipped her across the kidneys for questioning the coming-of-age ritual.

 

_Sins upon sins. They mutilate their daughters above as you strike your own and carve your son in darkness._

 

Then she was disgusted with herself for her hypocrisy.

 

When she was younger, she contemplated asking her father if tradition could be broken, if she could undergo the ritual in Malik's place. She knew their history, their mission, their purpose, their faith. Even then, at that moment, her knowledge of the rituals and logistics outmatched Malik's, and she was, by blood, the first born Ishtar. Yet in the end, the thought of taking his place was just that— a thought, buried and hidden. For she may have been unwanted and ignored, but being born as she was meant she had always been free to go outside.

 

In this, she was every bit as responsible for Malik suffering under the knife. The trips to the surface were all she had, and she did not want to give them up, even for her little brother. There was always a semblance of guilt when she went to the surface, for she knew her brothers would never experience the world as she did, had no idea of the scope beyond the limestone walls underground, beyond the tales she told them.

 

The guilt is what kept her from running away and never coming back.

 

Her brothers needed her.

 

“I worried for your mother when she left for the outside,” he said suddenly, a sorrow Isis had never heard before. She was alarmed at the tone as he rose from his place at his desk. “She was beautiful, and you grow to resemble her every time I look at you.”

 

_When you can be bothered to look at me._

 

A hard lump formed in her throat as he turned and stalked towards her, eyes hidden in the shadows of his hood and reaching around the waistband of his robes. He hadn't spoken of her mother in years, and for him to make a comparison now...

 

“You are becoming a woman, Isis.”

 

She retreated a step backward and her mind began to race with her heart, hands covering her mouth at the terrible deduction.

 

_Gods, please, no..._

 

“F-father, what are you doing?”

 

“I have been denying it since your first moonblood, but it cannot be ignored any longer.”

 

She cursed as her back hit the wall.

 

_No, this isn't happening to me._

 

She raised her arms to ear level in a halting motion, fingers trembling and palms becoming slick with sweat. She couldn't overpower him with her strength, but she could buy a handful of seconds and make him flinch if she scratched at his eyes. Just enough time so she could run away...

 

“You are old enough for this.”

 

His hand came away from his waistline and presented her not with her feared speculation, but with a gift. Everything in her body was rigid as the stone that surrounded them, gears within her mind stalled, trying to comprehend what her father just retrieved from his robes.

 

“A...” Isis gawked, hands lowering from her face and hovering above the object in his hands. “A... a dagger?”

 

“It was your mother's,” he said somberly. “I crafted it for her long ago, before we were wed. I would like for you to have it.”

 

He gestured with the knife, moving it in an arc in his hand. Her fingers continued to shake until they settled on the tool sheathed in leather, cradling it awkwardly in her hands. The blade in the sheath must have been, at a minimum, 15 centimeters, the handle nearly matching the length.

 

“You are beautiful, Daughter, and there will be men who will notice this,” he spoke stiffly, head hung low and hiding his eyes from her view. “You cannot overpower them with your own hands if they commit themselves to the unspeakable. A knife remedies this imbalance. Flesh is not harder than steel.”

 

Her fingers trailed over the ivory handle, tracing over the vibrant eyes of Horus and Ra. The etched hieroglyphs gave it a stippled texture, making it rough to the touch and difficult to lose grip, even with wet palms. The hilt was flared so the hand would not slip to the blade if one made a dedicated stab.

 

“Do not allow anyone to take it from you,” he said gravely.

 

She wondered if it was because of the intrinsic value of the ivory and gold in the handle, or the sentimental value of it having belonged to her mother, or his own value to his work. A shudder ran up her spine at acknowledging the craftsmanship. Of course her father was skilled in such regards, to weave something beautiful with an instrument of death.

 

“There were many who argued with me about giving her the knife,” he continued. “They argued that it would only be taken from her and used against her, but I knew better than they. Your mother was devoted, steadfast, a–”

 

He stopped himself as his tone wavered and his hand went to his face. Isis was terrified and bemused. Was he... was he _crying_?

 

“She would never allow someone to do wrong in her stead,” he said finally, dropping his hand from his eyes. “A knife cannot be taken from somebody who is dedicated to using it. If you do not show them weakness, if you are committed to protecting yourself, they cannot take it from you. If you are to carry this, Isis, you _must_ be prepared to use it against anyone who will do wrong against you.”

 

She contemplated the weight in her hands and felt it get heavier with the declaration. Had her mother ever needed to use it...?

 

“You know how to use a knife,” he said gruffly. “Yes?”

 

“Ah,” she started, uncertain of the answer she was to provide. Was this a trick question? “Sharp end to the attacker.”

 

She flinched when she saw him raise his hand and found herself shocked when it settled on her left shoulder.

 

“Isis, I pray you never have to use it, but should my prayers be in vain, you must not let yourself falter. When that knife comes out of its sheath, you must _commit_ to cutting anything that comes after you. Keep it in your head to _cut_ until the threat is gone and you get away with your life. Do not hesitate. Do not let your mind wander. Do not question yourself and do not feel guilt. Do not drop your guard. All this is what gets a knife taken away. You must be certain, you must be firm. _T_ _hey_ put you in that predicament, they _forced_ you to react, and they must pay accordingly.”

 

She could not bring herself to look into his eyes, and she stared intently at the dagger in her hands, still tucked within its sheath.

 

_How many times have you placed me or Rishid in a predicament, Father?_

 

“... Why are you telling me this?” she asked softly. “I have been going to the surface for some time now.”

 

“You do not share the same life as Malik and the servant.”

 

Isis refrained from narrowing her eyes at hearing his interpretation of Rishid's role.

 

_My older brother..._

 

She eyed his back with a dark intent as he turned and walked away from her to sit back at his desk.

 

“I knew this when you came into the world. You are my firstborn, my only daughter, and your duties are different. It is our custom for the matriarch to venture outside and listen for news of the Pharaoh's return as she supports the life of the clan.”

 

Her eyes blanched at the words. Matriarch? Support?

 

_Is he... trying to tell me I'm important?_

 

“You have already been taking frequent trips to the outside, and you will be doing so more as you grow older. As leader of the clan, precautions must be taken for your safety. Should you perish and our logistics collapse, Malik will not thrive.”

 

Her eyes shut in resignation and she held the knife to her chest, hands shaking. _Of_ _course_ , that's all this was. It was always about Malik's well being before all else. Her safety and virtue were mere afterthoughts.

 

Her grip tightened on the dagger, and for a terrible moment, she imagined gifting it back to her father through his neck. One well-placed stab through the spine and all would be done. She could run away before the sentries got word, leave the tomb and explore the world, find the Nameless Pharaoh and end the Ishtar's legacy of darkness once and for all. She could take her brothers with her and–

 

“I can always rely on you to be loyal to this family,” he uttered, hands roaming over his scroll. Her eyes snapped to attention with her head, a sharp intake of breath between clenched teeth.

 

“You have always been responsible, Isis. Anyone else would have run away long ago, yet here you have returned and remain. It is because of this I can trust you to carry out your duty to this clan and the Nameless Pharaoh. To know you are armed as you venture, my mind will be at ease.”

 

It took everything within her heart not to fall to her knees at the words, a twister of resent and confusion and rage and regret whirling in her head. Then, the thunder of logic cracking through her mind. To kill him would only bring about more misery to her family. Malik would inherit their father's title and the Items, become overwhelmed with the responsibilities thrust upon him because of her rash decision. Even if they were to run away, there would be the stresses of new stimuli, the alien outside. Would it all be too much? How could she force such agonies upon them?

 

“That is all have for you,” her father intoned. “You are dismissed.”

 

She did not move from her place against the wall, looking fretfully between him and her mother's— _her_ dagger. She almost betrayed her own father... Yet he _had_ betrayed her, abused her, ignored her, hurt her in the past. Would it not have been retribution had she acted out? But she had to think of her clan, of her duty, of her brothers. The dark thoughts, the dreams of something beyond tombs, she held that fate in her hands. But she _couldn't_.

 

_Malik. I have to think about what is best for him._

 

“Hm?” her father grunted, glancing over his shoulder. “Is there something you want to say to me?”

 

This startled her out of her conundrum, and she shook her head emphatically, hair whipping with the motion. It was done more to sort out her thoughts than to show a reply.

 

“A-ah, no, Father,” she whispered, bowing her head and clutching the dagger to her collar. “I was overwhelmed with the gift, is all. It is a great responsibility of which I am honored to be bestowed. I shall take my leave from the study.”

 

She stepped away from the wall and walked briskly for the exit, but she halted in her pace when something seized her once more: of all things, her manners, nearly instinct at this point in her life.

 

She stopped and placed a hand to the wall, looking over her shoulder.

 

“I... Thank you, Father,” she whispered. The words in any other context would have been respectable. Why was the taste so acrid in her mouth?

 

Her father only stared at her for a long moment, and she feared he sensed the bitterness lingering on her tongue. He either did not sense her contrition, or he decided it was not worth pursuing, and merely nodded with a grunt. She did not delve deeper in the matter and left the study, counting her blessings and considering her commitment to the dagger in her hands.

 

The one and only time she did not take it with her proved to be the worst encounter.

 

Three months later, Isis proved her loyalty was to a fault, the undoing of it all. She took her little brother outside, defied 3,000 years of custom, and destroyed her family in the matter of a day. Shadi said it was the will of the Pharaoh. Isis thought it was her biggest mistake, and she wondered what would have happened had she opted to stab the spirit in the eye before he put the seed of revenge in Malik's head.

 

Isis was loyal to her family, but Rishid, above all, was loyal to Malik. The morning after the tragedy, her brothers left her behind to bury their father. She remained, alone, to don the Millennium Torque, to preserve the legacy of the Nameless Pharaoh, and to shoulder the burdens that came with the name Ishtar.

 

Still, she prayed, and hoped for something better.

 

\- 0 – 0 – 0 -

 

With a curse under her breath and the downward swing of her hand, her dagger soared across the tent and penetrated the corner of the desk, sticking out at a picturesque 45 degree angle. Isis hooked her ankle around the leg of the chair and kicked it out from its place under the table to allow her the room needed to sit. She slapped the documents on top of the closed laptop and plopped into the seat, sagging forward with her face forward in her hands, elbows digging into the table with a loud “thump” in tandem. She took several deep breaths and tried to collect her thoughts, before she peeked through her fingers and stared at her reflection in the polished blade of the dagger.

 

A lion trapped in a cage had more dignity than she. She shut her eyes in a grimace and reached for the knife, giving it a solid tug. Plastic splinters from the white folding table came free along with the blade and she habitually wiped it once, twice, and placed it back into its sheath at her belt. She reached for her brown leather satchel, stowed to the side of the desk, and grabbed the stack of papers from her correspondence and plans for the collaborative exhibition, all for naught now. The numbers and names stacked up in her head with a searing loss as she placed it all in the bag, before her eyes drifted to the platinum suitcase at the side of her foot.

 

With another breath, she pinched the bridge of her nose and tepidly dropped her satchel atop the desk. She allowed herself to become sidetracked with the excavation, get self-absorbed with the public humiliation, and had forgotten her true reason for being there. The Winged Dragon of Ra still needed to be hidden, and she was still awaiting the final confirmation from her partners that the hiding place was secure to deposit the God Card. She closed her eyes and placed her hands around the Millennium Torque.

 

_Show me..._

 

Her hands trembled and the pupil of the eye glowed with the request. The light stuttered with the energy of an old engine that refused to turn over, and her eyes suddenly felt as though someone tried to strike a match across her eyelids. She groaned and clenched her head in her hands, seeing nothing but _feeling_ fire crawl across her skin and sink into the underlying muscle tissue, the sensation eating her nerves from the head down.

 

 _Stop_ , _stop_!

 

The light of the Torque died and she gasped, head collapsing into her arms and shaking on top of the desk. Tears pricked at her eyes and she hissed through her teeth. _Why_?

 

“Isis?”

 

Arthur tentatively brushed the tent flap to the side and poked his head in, just in time to see the young Egyptian woman raise her face from her folded arms, tears streaming down her cheeks and clutching at the satchel in front her. The elderly professor knitted his brow with a frown as he stepped forward.

 

“Professor Hopkins,” Isis regarded him coolly, quickly wiping the tears away, the pain ebbing from an acid burn to the end stages of the throbbing one experiences if they stubbed their toe against a door frame.

 

“We are off the clock, Isis. You can call me Arthur,” he said gently, pulling out a chair from the side of the tent and taking a seat across from her. He noted the documents leaking from the leather bag under her hands.

 

“Ma ta'tee wej, Isis,” he uttered (“ _Don't_ _give_ _him_ _face_ ”), leaning forward with an air of consolation. “It is not worth your time to agonize over the squawking of a fool.”

 

A questioning gleam crossed her eyes before she looked down at the satchel and back to Arthur's face.

 

“It has nothing to do with that,” Isis replied, grabbing her bag and placing it beside the suitcase with the God Cards, wiping at her cheeks a second time with a sniffle.

 

_But I can't explain the truth to you..._

 

“Then why the tears?”

 

Isis looked to the corner of the table, where her knife had been, and sighed.

 

“It is nothing I cannot handle,” she replied vaguely. She wished he hadn't followed her here, all to give her a reassuring smile and a contemplative glance. She knew that look meant he was preparing for a rousing lecture, and she didn't feel like talking to anyone right now.

 

After a moment of silence, Arthur leaned back in his chair and placed his knuckles against the side of his face, as though recalling a memory.

 

“You know, not too long ago, I had found myself frustrated with others demeaning my work,” he began. Still, Isis kept her eyes trained on the dagger mark and placed her hands in her lap.

 

“I was mocked for hypotheses centering around the likes of Duel Monsters deriving from stone carvings in Egypt, the remnants of old games. It was to be my last trip to the country for the season, and I vowed if I found no evidence to assist my case, I would drop it all to pursue other ventures. The mission itself was already tedious, and it had been a long flight with an unplanned layover in Turkey. I was terribly jet-lagged and my luggage was lost in transit. The only thing that consoled me is that I had the mind to keep my research papers with me in my carry-on along with a hip flask I filled at the airport bar in the States.”

 

She still refused to meet his eyes, but her eyebrows jerked and her lip turned upward for a brief moment, and Arthur's smile broadened at the reaction.

 

“I had touched ground right on time to hit rush hour traffic in Cairo, and my scheduled ride was nowhere to be seen. Yet, lo and behold, just when I nearly lost all hope, a young lady pulled up in a taxi and told me to hop in. I was so tired and so far behind, I paid little mind to question what a girl her age was doing driving a taxi and agreed, _anything_ to get away from the airport at that moment.”

 

Where Arthur expected a smile, he saw a frown and her shoulders sagged at the memory, but he did not let this deter him.

 

“The traffic was horrible and we were stalled for three hours just trying to get to my hotel. Alas, it was not for loss, for I struck up a conversation with this mysterious young woman while traffic crawled. She had a strong aptitude for extant languages and knowledge of the ancient world that rivaled even my own after half a decade of study. Impressed with her know-how, I dared to share the hypotheses that earned me so much ridicule in the academic community, and what would you know? This young lady even had knowledge pertaining to that, and offered to take me to an elusive site, old ruins among dunes few dared to venture, if I was so inclined to take the invitation. How drastically my luck had changed for me to meet this scholarly girl. I can think of no other explanation than it must have been fate.”

 

Isis' eyes were worn at the reminder. It was, indeed. A distant relative integrated with the Gravekeeper logistics owned a private transportation company in the capital, and she was given a job after submitting her papers, all at the guidance of the Torque. It was a brief stint that served its purpose, which made her feel all the more guilty when Arthur looked back on the memory with so much fondness.

 

“I looked at my watch and saw the hotel was for naught. There was nothing left for me to lose, so I took her up on her offer and she drove to the ruins. So fortunate for us to have a Jeep! There, I saw the evidence I needed, and found myself personally indebted to this intelligent, mysterious young girl. Surely, there was something I could do to thank her for her kindness and lending me the helping hand I so very much needed at such a low point in my career. So it goes, I had extensive resources regarding scholarship applications to Cairo University, and once my thesis was published and my name was cleared in the eyes of the community, I submitted a letter of recommendation along with a request to an old friend in the Supreme Council of Antiquities. It was another stroke of luck they were desperate for a knowledgeable intern. Most would think it crazy for a foreigner to go to such lengths for a stranger, to jump through all those hoops, but after that day, there was no doubt in my mind–”

 

Arthur pointed at Isis and tapped the air, up and down, with vibrant eyes and an upward slant to his mustache.

 

“I _knew_ this young woman was special. She just needed a chance to get her foot in the door.”

 

Isis bit her lip and physically turned her head so it was a profile to Arthur. Even before she took him to the site among the dunes, he was nothing but kind to her despite his tiredness from his travels and misfortunes. He was always encouraging and supportive, never once cruel or spiteful, which made it all the worse that the Torque manipulated his path like so many others for the Game of the Gods. His help, his guidance, his friendship, it was all a farce.

 

“And now she sits before me,” Arthur gestured with an open palm facing the the ceiling of the tent as he rested the elbow of his other arm atop the back of his folding chair. “Looking away like a lost kitten under a dumpster when she should be holding herself like a lioness gazing upon her savanna. Get that chin up and look at me, Isis.”

 

The firm tone in the last sentence inclined her to obey, and she did as he said. He cocked a brow and closed his eyes with deep sigh, displeased with the denial he saw in her features.

 

“Isis, never allow someone to devalue your worth because they refuse to acknowledge it.”

 

“That's not it, Arthur...” Isis looked down with the words.

 

“Stop looking away when you speak to me. I don't operate on hierarchical rubbish,” Arthur said firmly, once again, and she snapped her head to attention. “Even if that is not the case, you still need to hold yourself with higher regard. It's disheartening for the people who care about you to see you look so somber. Somebody with so much talent and charisma needs to carry their self with more pride.”

 

She almost looked away again, but she reminded herself to keep her eyes trained on his. So much hope swelled within him. He was so proud of her.

 

“Arthur...”

 

“Don't 'Arthur' me,” he waved a chastising finger. “I am _very_ sorry if I am the first to inform you of this, _Isis_ _Ishtar_ , but you were doomed from the beginning to accomplish great things.”

 

Isis blinked and moved her mouth with a soft “Wha...?”

 

“Fate and war, magic and justice, destiny and civilization!” he looked back and forth between his hands as he sorted the words. “Your parents must have had grand expectations of you to bestow such a name.”

 

His words cut deeper than any whip or blade. She never knew why her mother chose “Isis”, and so far as her father was concerned, she only existed for Malik's sake.

 

As she is now, _everything_ she does is for Malik's sake.

 

Because of her foolish mistake.

 

She began to massage her temples with a sulk. She was getting a headache.

 

“Arthur, I appreciate your kind words, but you have _no idea_ what you are talking about.”

 

“Oh, I don't, do I?” He leaned forward on his elbows and stared over his interlocked fingers. “So I'm just imagining your good rapport with the Council? And the Minister of Tourism was just going along with your ideas for kicks, hmm? The influence of your country's PR and commerce thrown to a mere whim?

 

“Arthur...”

 

“How about the guards out there?” he continued, undeterred. “What do you think of them risking harsh reprimand under the hand of the Secretary General when they choose to wait on the word of the Assistant? You think they've suddenly forgotten their bearings?”

 

“They're just stubborn,” Isis said under her breath.

 

“They _respect_ you,” Arthur asserted. “Many people respect you. You're well-spoken, well-educated, devoted, sincere, _brillian_ _t_. Your thoughts and intentions have weight, Isis. There are many people who will work _with_ you, work _for_ you. It's not an accident and it's not random. When you speak, people listen. Even your name garners attention, Isis Ishtar.”

 

“Epithets of the dead,” Isis whispered, fingers trailing over her satchel. “The modern world no longer values names like mine. Your opinion to my influence is severely inflated.”

 

“Really?” Arthur said, extending his arm and pointing in the northern direction. “There are countries across the border organizing a multi-national exhibition _right_ _now_. People who would rather cut off their own noses than work with their neighbors have agreed to collaborate. Tell me, just _who_ was it that spurred a project of that scale? Who broke those barriers?”

 

Isis grimaced and placed her knuckles to the side of her head.

 

“Historical societies are different from civil societies, Arthur.”

 

“But it all concerns _society_ , Isis,” Arthur gestured to her again with open palms. “The society you were born in and the society you must live with, and it is a society you can shape. You have that influence, Isis.”

 

She closed her eyes and shook her head.

 

“The people in power will not listen.”

 

“You _are_ a person in power!” Arthur urged, and she moved back in her seat at the tone. “There are people who oppose you, I do not deny this! But there are people who also _adore_ you, Isis. You can't allow yourself to be silenced because of the pig-headed former!”

 

“Arthur, please, I know what you're trying to say, but I can't–”

 

“None of that!” Arthur barked. “Say you _won't_ , and I know it is of your choosing, but _never_ say you _can't_. You have too much potential, too much to offer, and I will not sit by idly and allow you to suppress it under the will of wild asses who will keep you under their heel!”

 

“Arthur,” Isis crooned. “Things are just... different here.”

 

“You think I am not aware of that?” Arthur sighed listlessly, knitting his brow. “Let this Ugly American tell you something, Isis. The time I was part of my country's Navy, I served under six different administrations, traveled the world, and have excavated countless sites abroad. I speak to you as a devout traveler, archaeologist, and anthropologist: nowhere else have I seen a region so _dedicated_ to erasing their own history!”

 

Isis could not find it in her heart to protest, so she hummed with a deep breath and closed her eyes.

 

“That is exactly what you were trying to address with the International Exhibition. I heard it from your own lips,” Arthur pressed with a pointed finger in her direction. “Culture and knowledge are lost on a daily basis; the cradle of human civilization is disintegrating before our eyes. Try to tell people what that crescent moon and star _really_ represent and you will be met with rejection and ridicule, if not worse.”

 

“Arthur, please, stop,” Isis asked with a flat palm as she massaged her eyes with the other hand. “I appreciate your concern and support, but I do not wish to speak of this any further.”

 

His mustache twitched and his eyes strained as he leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on the table to settle his own nerves. He observed her defeated tone, the defeated body language, and sighed wearily.

 

“Forgive me for my brashness, Isis,” he said. “It is a deep concern of mine, not only as an archaeologist, but as your mentor and your friend. I do not want you to be disheartened by others' resistance to your efforts. There are terrible people who are hard at work destroying the past. I do not wish for them destroy your future with it.”

 

Isis wanted to laugh and cry at that. She knew her future too well.

 

_The Dark Thing chanting, a golden ball in the sky spreading with thunder claps across the shadows._

 

_Cursed Phoenix diving, bellowing against the Dark Thing's cackling._

 

_Her skin burning, peeling, melting, flaking to ash._

 

_Her little brother wailing her name in terror._

 

_And there is nothing._

 

Anyone who places their hopes with her will have nothing.

 

“... I'll think about it, okay?” she said, a soft, meek tone indicative of the opposite as she directed her eyes to the knife mark in the table. She feared Arthur would go into another spiel as he stared severely with narrowed eyes and crossed arms.

 

She relaxed when she saw him run his hand through hair as he shook his head.

 

“I see even the imperturbable Isis Ishtar has reached her limits with the barking of this old dog,” Arthur murmured with a wry smile. He grunted as he placed his hands on his knees and lifted himself from the hard seat. “Just as well. I will leave you to your cataloging. Don't work too hard now, Miss Ishtar.”

 

He waved lackadaisically with his exit from the tent, and Isis returned it despite him not looking back for a reply.

 

When Arthur left, she placed her hands flat against the desk, on either side of the satchel, and inhaled through her nose, imagining a small, glowing ball in her diaphragm and the imaginary lines across her temple fading. Upon exhalation through her mouth, the ball reached its equilibrium, settled in size, and the lines released their hold on her mind. All balanced. All clear.

 

“Oh, Madame Muad'dib~!”

 

The ball dropped in her gut like a rock and the lines dashed across her forehead when Pegasus poked his head into the tent with a grin.

 

“I got a present for you!”

 

“That wasn't necessary,” Isis droned, eyes half-lidded and hands rolled into fists.

 

“You don't even know what I got you!” Pegasus chortled, sauntering into the tent with his hands behind his back and eye sparkling with mirth. “I think it will really cheer you up.”

 

 _A trepanning kit?_ she wondered.

 

“That's so dark!” Pegasus proclaimed, and Isis reminded herself she was speaking with a man who could read minds. Perhaps if she switched to Arabic or Coptic...

 

“Surely, your headache isn't _that_ bad,” he joked.

 

“Not for use on myself,” she replied, moving her satchel to the side and shifting through the other papers on the desk before settling on a clipboard with several notes, dimensions and details in black ink on lined yellow paper. She picked up a nearby pen and scrawled her own notes on the top sheet.

 

“Well now! That's just rude,” Pegasus pouted. “Now I'm not sure it was worth the trouble getting this for you.”

 

“What did you get me, Pegasus?” she sighed.

 

“You sure you're ready for this?” he asked coyly with a sideways glance. “It's fortunate you're sitting down.”

 

“What is it?” she asked, tapping the button end of the pen to the board with several clicks.

 

A pearly white grin sliced across his face and he swung his present to the front with one hand, stopping its momentum in front of his chest with the other.

 

“Ta-da!”

 

The pen slipped from her limp fingertips, slid down the clipboard, and clattered to the ground.

 

Between his outstretched hands was a pot roughly the size of a volleyball with two handles on either side, one chipped and the other intact. Faded hues of blue, white, black, gold, and green decorated the reddish clay pot, a prominent scene of Ra, Atum, Isis, and Osiris converging in the underworld. It was not an immaculate or pristine piece, unremarkable to the eyes of most with its intermittent cracks at the rim and chipped base, but all the details were unmistakable.

 

It was a genuine artifact, and her stomach flipped with the pounding of her heart. Pegasus took her reaction for appreciation.

 

“Impressed?”

 

“Mr. Crawford...” Isis uttered, eyeing the pot as though it were a nest of hornets. “Where did you get that?”

 

_Please don't say you found it. Please don't say you found it. Please don't say you found it._

 

“I found it.”

 

_Xara! (Shit!)_

 

“And _where_ , exactly, did you find it?” she spoke slowly, hoping to the deities above that Pegasus picked it from a vendor's stall so she could write it off as a faithful imitation.

 

“I found it on one of the sites!”

 

With the words, her heart dropped into her gut and her forehead thudded against the desk. Pegasus titled his head.

 

“What? Is something wrong?”

 

Isis picked her head up and rubbed at her eyes.

 

“Mr. Crawford,” she began, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, talking as though each word was its own sentence and drawing out each syllable. “You. Cannot. Just. Take. Things. From. A. Site.”

 

“Why not, William Shatner?”

 

She rose from her seat and walked around the desk, moving to stand in front of him while pointing with the clipboard.

 

“Archaeology is a _science_. There is a system. We need data. Do you remember the assigned number for the site?”

 

“The sites are numbered?”

 

Isis fought the instinct to slap her forehead, settling for a deep breath, and felt a rush of blood to her temples.

 

“Do you remember the orientation of which the pot was resting when you found it?”

 

“On its side?” he shrugged. “I didn't think too much of it when I saw the illustration. I just kept digging around it until I worked it loose from the dirt and dusted it off with my hands.”

 

 _Who thought it was a good idea to give you a shovel?_ Isis thought.

 

“It was a trowel, actually,” Pegasus specified matter-of-factly, and Isis once again scolded herself for thinking in English. “I found it lying around and decided to use it. The hands of an accomplished artist cannot be left idle for too long.”

 

He rolled his wrists in circular rotations, the movement a fortune teller would use over a crystal ball, turning the pot in his hands. A small bead of sweat broke over Isis' brow.

 

“Please don't do that,” she said, and he stopped when she placed her hand just above the rim. “The integrity of the artifact has already been compromised.”

 

“Well!” Pegasus gasped, as though offended at her assertion, and placed his left hand on his chest as he balanced the pot in the other by the right side of his head. “All that sophisticated articulation, yet not a single 'thank you' in your vocabulary. I didn't _have_ to get my hands dirty for you, you know.”

 

Her heart skipped a beat as she saw him dangle the pot from the intact handle with his index finger.

 

“Pegasus, no, don't hold it like–”

 

He moved back with a mild sensation of surprise as she reached forward for the pot. From Pegasus' viewpoint, her hand appeared to be lurching for his eye, and he flinched involuntarily in response. The rounded mass of the pot swung with the jerky movement, and all of Isis' concerns were validated as the artifact slipped from his grasp.

 

The shape and fabric of the olive green tent did not allow for the appropriate acoustics to project an echo, but the sound of 3,000 year old clay breaking upon contact with the ground still found a way to cling to their ears. They both stared at the shattered remnants, a quiet between them so palpable the air felt frigid. The clipboard shook in her left hand as her right covered her face in an attempt to hide her twitching eye and spasming lips around clenched teeth. Pegasus pursed his lips and stared at her, arms hanging stiffly at his sides, like a schoolboy who was accustomed to being reprimanded for bad deeds and well prepared to let the tirade flow in one ear and out the other.

 

Instead, he observed the clipboard steady in her hands and saw the workings of her mind. Where he expected to see volcanoes erupting and claws tearing into flesh, he beheld a flurry of ethical codes, protocols, paperwork, and professional tedium. Pegasus wondered if he was going to see a layered grid of green zeroes and ones against a black field. How boring!

 

“In fairness,” Pegasus spoke with a raised palm to the ceiling. “This wouldn't be the first thing you hid from your department.”

 

She rose her head and glared at him through her fingers.

 

“You know, like this entire mess going on with your brother,” he prodded, pointing in her direction and moving his index finger in a circle. “Well, more like you _reporting_ the accidents and 'forgetting' to mention it's your brother causing them. Ah, and the delicate matter of your age.”

 

Isis allowed her hand to fall to her side and her head hung to one shoulder as she stared at him with half-lidded eyes, cold and unamused.

  
“Oh, _yes_ , I know. I looked it up,” Pegasus continued with a sagely nod. “Very funny business how you managed to completely slip _that_ past whatever processor was in the office that day. There is _no_ feasible way you are near your mid-twenties with _a face like that._ ”

 

Then, to accompany the childish tone, Pegasus leaned over to match her stature and reached forward with his finger.

 

Any onlooker who was aware of the dynamic between them would have viewed what followed with absurdity and hysteria. It would have been as though Pegasus was some sort of lunatic who slathered himself in raw meat and threw his body into a pack of starving hyenas.

 

Pegasus, however, was beyond such simple notions. What he imagined, instead, was adjusting a cuff link in a casual fashion as he whistled and swaggered across a bridge in a secretive compound, punching in a code at the inner gate, placing a key into its appropriate slot at ground zero, and pushing a shiny, bright, red button, triggering the underground silos to open and reveal their deadly payload—

 

As he pursed his lips and touched the tip of her nose.

 

“Boop!”

 

Upon seeing her blush, the toothy smile that slashed across his face was so prominent, one would have thought it was a snarl. Pegasus had only seen that shade of crimson on his artist palette.

 

_Yes, Madame Muad'dib, bring yourself down here with the rest of us._

 

He placed his hands on his hips, leaning into her face and cocking a brow. He could feel the heat emanating from her cheeks and found it far preferable to the cold silence that had followed the shattering of the pot.

 

“What do you have to say to _that_ , Miss Ishtar?”

 

He was prepared to see her glower, prepared to see her throw the clipboard across the tent and lunge for him, prepared to hear her growl and scream, prepared to feel her nails cut into his cheek with a harsh slap, prepared to feel the air evacuate his lungs when she punched him in the gut, prepared to feel pebbles digging between his shoulder blades when he hit the ground, prepared to feel the shemagh tighten around his neck when she pulled it with one hand while the other rained down on his head in an attempt to wipe the shit-eating-grin off his face.

 

He was prepared for all of it.

 

He wanted all of it.

 

He wanted to see her at her worst.

 

However, following the trend of their trip thus far, Isis Ishtar proved she was not the type of person who bent to accommodate his wishes. The dapper man found himself severely demotivated when the red shading faded from her face as she closed her eyes, before she turned away from him.

 

“It was not catalogued,” she said flatly. She grabbed an empty box from a pile and knelt beside the clay remnants, placing the pieces with a hint of deference for the lost artwork.

 

“The sun will not halt in its path for fragments of earth. There are processes for matters such as these, but in the future, I would appreciate it if you left the work to the professional excavators or, at the very least, proceed with their supervision. In the meantime, you may wait outside the tent until I receive word that the resting place for the Winged Dragon of Ra is ready.”

 

Pegasus wore a potent scowl, clenching his hands into fists and leaving marks in his palms as she placed the box aside in a corner. When she stood up, posture sickeningly impeccable and rail straight, she dusted off her hands, sliding her palms against each other and making a soft clapping sound.

 

“I have nothing further to discuss with you,” she spoke with her back turned to him. “You are dismissed, Mr. Crawford.”

 

“Goodness, do you have _a_ _ny_ personality?!” he erupted.

 

Isis looked over her shoulder and lifted a brow in inquiry.

 

“You are saying I lack one, Mr. Crawford?”

 

“I am,” he affirmed, spreading his arms wide with a sneer. “You're all exposition, but you really don't seem to have any _character_ about you.”

 

“You mean, I don't smile more often?” Isis said, turning to face him and crossing her arms across her chest. Pegasus made a clicking sound again his teeth with a shake of his head, silver hair shifting lightly on his shoulders.

 

“Tsk, tsk. You certainly _could_ afford to smile more, or at the very least change your face to something other than this.” His eye dropped to a half-lid and he forced his lips into a tight line.

 

“Lord, it hurts me to do that!” he grimaced. “So _serious_! It reminds me of the marble sculptures I carved in art class. It's been driving me mad since you came to me.”

 

“I will not apologize for my behavior,” Isis said.

 

“I don't want you to apologize. I want you to act like a _person_.”

 

“People are capable of more than experiencing constant states of rage or willful senselessness.”

 

“You mean, having _fun_?” Pegasus said, placing his hands akimbo. “What I'm saying is, you don't act organic. You don't really seem to _change_ , save for when someone chips at your armor a bit.”

 

Isis narrowed her eyes.

 

“Ah, like that! Right there!” Pegasus pointed. “It's just so _frustrating_! Do you think yourself above human instinct, _Isis Ishtar_?”

 

She regarded her emphasized name, but was silent.

 

“Hm, nothing to say?” Pegasus pried, crossing his own arms. “Is that your thing? Your parents had the grand idea to give you two holy names and you think you can maintain yourself like a deity above man? Is that why you always hold yourself like a statue most of the time?”

 

At this, a small, imperceptible smile graced Isis' lips and she looked down at her feet. All this about her names _again_?

 

“Is that what you really think of me?” she asked, just above a whisper. She stepped forward and grabbed her satchel off the desk, opened the top, and pulled out a folder of references for the International Exhibition. She fingered through the pages. “My actions are all some superficial attempt to emulate my given name?”

 

Pegasus shrugged.

 

“Aside from a tragic backstory? You don't give me reason to think otherwise.”

 

“I see.”

 

She continued to flip through her documents until she stopped on a script with a Polaroid photograph clipped to the top. She pinched the photo and took it out with a small flourish.

 

“Pegasus, come over and tell me what you see here.”

 

“Do you need a lesson in intelligent discourse?” Pegasus asked. “You don't just change the subject when someone backs you into a corner and says something you don't like! It's tacky.”

 

“I am not changing the subject, Mr. Crawford,” Isis said evenly. Still, she held the photograph out to him. “I am expanding on a topic you brought up during this conversation. I possess an archaeology degree with an emphasis in Egyptology, and am so fortunate to hold a position of authority concerning the preservation of antiquities. As such, it is also my job to _educate_ those about the history of the antiquities I hold dear. You were generous to grant me the segue to this platform, which I will graciously take. Now, please, take this picture.”

 

With a “hmph,” he did as she requested.

 

“What do you see?”

 

“It's a statue.”

 

“What sort of statue?”

 

“A statue of a woman wearing jewelry and... many lumps on her chest.”

 

“Do you know who she is?”

 

“No, I don't. If I knew, I would have told you,” Pegasus said irritably. “I don't make it a hobby to look at lumpy old statues.”

 

“She is Artemis of Ephesus.”

 

“So... this is Greek?”

 

“Somewhat,” Isis began. “You have to remember: the world we perceive today is not as it was thousands of years ago. Though the name Artemis brings about thought of the Greeks, the statue you see there has roots in Anatolia. Gods and cults become appropriated throughout time depending on who conquers what.”

 

“Okay, so... Artemis is really an Anatolian goddess that was picked up by the Greeks.”

 

“And Artemis was picked up by the Anatolians from someone else.”

 

“What?”

 

Pegasus found he also did not like the hum she held in her throat.

 

“To give some thousands of years an abridged history, _Artemis_ is Anatolian, but the _goddess_ is not. Remember, as I said before: the world was very different then. As people and civilizations expanded and developed, so did their gods. Cultures appropriate with the times. Throughout history, we see gods of similar theme and different names occur, but when you trace back their origins, these multitudes of gods can often be found to derive from one deity.”

 

“So, what you're saying is, Artemis is a spinoff of an older goddess?”

 

“She is a variant, yes,” Isis said with a nod. “Along with the likes of Aphrodite or Isis. At their core, they all come from one goddess, one of the oldest: Astarte. However, you may know her better by her alternate identity, Ishtar.”

 

“Your namesake,” said Pegasus. He held the photograph and compared it to the woman standing in front of him. “Uncanny.”

 

“I shall take your quip as a compliment.”

 

“So, you're showing me this photograph to illustrate the point that you really do take after a statue.”

 

“Oh, no, I've much more to tell you. The history lesson doesn't end here. You may find more interest as it concerns art as well.”

 

“Really, now?”

 

There was another nod from Isis in affirmation.

 

“Recalling the photograph, there was a discrepancy with the statue regarding the time period it came from.”

 

“What was the discrepancy?”

 

“Mr. Crawford, what do you think all those lumps are?”

 

A sudden shade of pink painted his cheeks.

 

“Uh...”

 

“Do not be shy with me, Mr. Crawford. In addition to today's findings, I've uncovered many a statue with much less than what Artemis is wearing in that photograph in the past.”

 

“Well, all they're all on her chest. So, they're... ahem...”

 

“Breasts?” Isis added helpfully.

 

“... Yes. I mean, the placement would indicate so.”

 

“And that is what historians thought for years. Yet, once again, there is a discrepancy. The dating on that statue matches other pieces of artwork found around Ephesus, which showed that the artists at the time had no qualms about being anatomically accurate.”

 

Pegasus furrowed his brow.

 

“You know the discrepancy I speak of, Mr. Crawford?”

 

“Uh... the lumps...”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Well, they don't... Ahem...”

 

“You painted cards like the Harpy Ladies, yet you cannot bring yourself to speak of basic human anatomy? You, last of all, I expected to be so prudish on the matter.” Her smile remained.

 

Pegasus released a deep sigh. He couldn't argue with that logic.

 

“Ugh! Fine! The shapes aren't quite right and there are no nipples. Why?” Not that he had to really ask. He knew she was going to tell him regardless.

 

“That was a question some scholars asked. Then, they realized they were looking at the statue out of context. You see, Artemis, and by her predecessor, Ishtar, were goddesses of fertility. So at first, the presence of multiple breasts was not questioned quite so heavily. Still, why the change? Artistic license? A sudden restrictive mandate? Yet as more information was unearthed, the true story began to surface.”

 

Pegasus pursed his lips and looked at the watch on his wrist. Why was Isis all of a sudden so fixated on taking about strange lumps?

 

“You are aware that Artemis is commonly referred to as 'goddess of the hunt', yes?”

 

“Well, of course. There are even animals on her statue here.”

 

“Yet she was _more_ than that to _many_ different people throughout history. Once again, putting things in the appropriate context, Artemis shares a link with the goddess Astarte, a shared path with _Ishtar_. While they were heavily associated with fertility, they were also considered to be _gods of war_. Keep in mind, we are speaking of the Bronze Age, and it was not at all unusual to take the foreskin of one's enemy when they fell in battle at the time.”

 

One could hear a pin drop in the silence that followed. A drop of sweat formed on Pegasus' temple as he put the pieces together in his head.

 

“In addition to this,” Isis continued, “many of the cults belonging to Artemis and Astarte consisted of eunuchs.”

 

Pegasus held the picture away from his face as physically possible without dropping it on the floor.

 

“So... these lumps are really...”

 

“Indeed. Though it is still a topic of debate among some circles, _I_ know the truth.”

 

The Millennium Torque shimmered under her touch.

 

“Lovely,” Pegasus droned with a mighty frown. “You may have your picture back now.”

 

“ _Thank you_ ,” Isis said, and Pegasus cocked his lips at the words. As she looked at the photograph, there was a crunch of footsteps outside the tent and Isis blinked when she registered the person who emerged from the entrance.

 

“ _Miss_ _Ishtar_ ,” uttered the brick-faced guard in Arabic, one hand holding the flap of the tent open while his other ran along the sling attached to his carbine. “ _The_ _site_ _for_ _the_ _God_ _Card_ _is_ _secure_. _Your_ _ride_ _is_ _ready_.”

 

“ _Thank you for coming to tell me,_ ” Isis said, hurriedly gathering her papers back into her satchel and slinging it over her shoulder. “ _The Secretary General spared you for the detail?_ ”

 

“ _He thinks I am taking a smoke break,_ ” he shrugged with a smile. Isis shook her head with sigh. She supposed that was better than being a pair of hands short.

 

“ _So be it,_ ” she said. “ _We will be out in a minute._ ”

 

The guard bowed and ducked out of the tent, and while Pegasus was not fluent in Arabic, he understood the conversation in full when he saw Isis reach for the platinum suitcase.

 

“Oh, _finally_!” Pegasus huffed. He made to step toward the entrance of the tent, but stopped when Isis placed a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Mr. Crawford, I must conclude our conversation properly.”

 

He knitted his brow.

 

“I thought we already did.”

 

“I was taking part in 'intelligent discourse' with you. It is only right to leave you with a closing statement.”

 

He rolled his eye, but waved his hand in a circular gesture that told her to get on with it.

 

“You accused me of emulating a goddess as some sort of compulsion to hold myself to a higher status. I must let you know that my attitude and mannerisms are done out of a sense of fear of a dire power falling into the wrong hands.” Her thumb caressed the handle of the suitcase, the remaining two Egyptian Gods etched to the forefront of her mind. “This is why I have tried to keep such a tight hold on my resolve.”

 

“Yes, yes, the destruction of mankind, I get it,” Pegasus dismissed. He made to step once more, but her hand did not leave his shoulder.

 

“However, your _own_ attitude and mannerisms have done nothing except grate me since meeting you. I have _tried_ to remain civil with you throughout our encounter, but if you continue to _push me..._ ”

 

Pegasus grunted as she tightened her grip, nails leaving indentations through his shirt, and brought his ear to her mouth.

 

“My final words before we depart for the resting place of the Winged Dragon of Ra, Pegasus J. Crawford: _Do_ _not force me to live up to my name._ ”

 

Upon looking into her eyes, Pegasus wondered if people had also burned as sacrifices to the gods of her namesake, their cries dying in the crackles as smoke billowed into the clouds. Or perhaps, the fire he saw was _all_ Isis Ishtar, the woman of two gods. Not a statue comprised of cold stone, but a deity who harbored the life of the stars, one who chose to flicker like a candle flame as a mercy to mortal men who would otherwise perish in her wake, reduce to ash at the sight of her authentic form.

 

Isis pushed him away and tore herself from his gaze to make her exit. Pegasus stared at the flap of the tent and massaged his shoulder, reflecting on the soreness in his rotator cuff as he dug his thumb into the groove, and tilted his head with a smirk when the pressure hit a nerve, a hot sensation not unlike burning shooting down his arm and settling into his fingertips.

 

_Well, well, it appears you have some personality after all._

 

He decided he rather liked that fire. It would be a terrible shame to let it burn out.

* * *

 Author's Notes: Pegasus, _NO_. That's not how you make friends!

 

The guards mentioned are the men in suits who arrived with Isis in her debut, Episode 52: _The Pharaoh's Lost Memories_. They also faced off against Malik (… and lost) in her flashback in Episode 123 _: Battle Royale!_ when he was trying to get the last God Card, Obelisk.

 

So if one thinks about the fact they all _still_ came with Isis to Japan after getting knocked unconscious by her brother with a magic glowing stick, it gives me the impression they respect Isis and hold her in very high regard. Yeah, their training and firepower didn't do that well against Egyptian magic, but you have to admit Isis has a posse of some hardcore “ride or die” motherf—

 

Oh, also, I gave the “brick-faced guard” a special mention in this chapter as he was shown being manipulated by Malik in a flashback in Episode 60: _Dark Magician User - Pandora,_ punching in the security code for Ra.

 

Sorry, guy.

 

I really, really struggled with the scene concerning Isis and her father. He's neck-and-neck with Gozaburo insofar as winning the “Worst Dad Ever” award, but Malik and Isis still had some sort of reverence concerning him in the series. Malik held his father's corpse, wears his earrings, and vowed to avenge him while Isis laid down a flower and prayed at his grave. I am no fan of Mr. Ishtar, but I do think that deep, _deep_ down somewhere in the tiny, shriveled up raisin he had for a heart, he must have shown some sort of “care” for his children at some point off screen to garner such reactions.

 

But I still think Isis deserves better, so in comes Arthur Hopkins. Considering his background, surely, he and Isis must have crossed paths at some point in time. The rest of their dynamic wrote itself.

 

Arthur's past exploits: No evidence whatsoever on what he was like well before the start of the series, but I'm just a sucker for the trope where a seemingly sweet old man was a total badass in his prime. Sugoroku got to be a hot-shot gambler, so why can't Arthur be a ruff-n-tuff sailor and explorer?

 

Listen, Arthur got a grand total of 15 minutes of screentime (or less). I'll headcanon what I want.

 


End file.
